


i don't wanna feel blue, anymore

by rainbowstrlght



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 15:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15099572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowstrlght/pseuds/rainbowstrlght
Summary: After withdrawing from five tournaments in a row, Rafa is feeling a lot of shame and bitterness. Not only did retiring at the Australian Open cost him momentum, but it also cost Rafa a chance to look at Roger over the net--to settle that 4-0 record from 2017, once and for all. This year, 2018, was supposed to be different, not full of injuries and setbacks. Not full of feelings for Roger, his biggest rival. Not full of doubt and resentment. Will things ever get back on course? Will Rafa ever forget about Roger--or, the real question, does he evenwantto?TL;DR:The first six months of 2018 from Rafa's POV. Slight reality divergence because life happens faster than I can type, apparently.





	i don't wanna feel blue, anymore

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song "Blue" by Marina and the Diamonds. Not the plot of the fic, but it was nice music to listen to. 
> 
> **Formatting Notes:** Many characters speak in Spanish during the story, yet the whole fic is in English. To differentiate Spanish dialogue, I would put the sentence between quotes and italics. For example: _"Geez, this fic has rules?"_ should be in Spanish words that the author is not fluent in. 
> 
> Some text messages are represented by blockquotes. (AO3 _really_ needs to work on blockquote formatting. It's kinda ugly.) 
> 
> Also, there are many flashbacks throughout the story, hopefully made obvious by verb tenses and word cues. I, unfortunately, love to experiment with narrative format and structure, and fanfic often suffers for it. I apologize if it is confusing, but it made sense in my head. 
> 
> Thank you for reading--this one means a lot to me.

Rafa watched the lighting change in the room. It always started as the coldest of blues and whites, and as the day lengthened, turned into the warmest of oranges and reds—only to turn into the blues again, with the navy dark suffocating as it laid over everything. 

He had seen it all at least three times this week. The pain wouldn’t let him sleep longer than a few hours, and every time he woke up the world was a different hue and mood. Rafa would probably see this cycle a few more times, lying in bed as the doctor ordered, but alone and bitter against everyone’s well-intended advice. 

Rafa sighed. He knew he was lucky. He was recuperating in a villa by the sea and could even smell the water. One hand scratched the bare skin of his chest, and the other was stretched over his head, his fingertips touching a wall with ancient history. 

Lucky. _Always._ Rafa might have the tear in his hip now—a burning pain that was so familiar, yet somehow a different shade from his knees—but he was still able to breathe through it. _Breathe._ Although when he had been playing Marin, he had felt his throat constricting, a panic rising up that he could hardly quell—

Well, every move could be a last move. He had known that for a long time. But Rafa had truly wondered then, on the cusp of taking back what was his— _his_ Australia, _his_ 17—if this was something that couldn’t be fixed, something that couldn’t be fought through. 

He was lucky that it could be, this time. 

Rafa had decided not to turn on the final match of the AO, but he had followed the alerts on his phone, anyway—Roger was lucky, too. Always. Possibly a bit luckier than him. 

No— _obviously_. Obviously luckier than him. 

Mary sometimes hummed a song under her breath—”Que será, será; whatever will be, will be”—and he had asked her once where she had learned it. Her grandfather— _family_. The most important of things; _Rafa’s_ most important thing. 

But while the song was so pretty, Rafa hated it. It expressed an easiness and acceptance of life that he didn’t really feel. He wanted to clench the pillows surrounding his body, the white sheets rumpled on the bed, the unfinished business piling up around him. 

He saw Roger’s smirking face in his mind, seconds away from giggling, and Rafa wanted to clench that, too. But the image would eventually slip away like everything else; into the cool tones of the nighttime that chased out the day, chased out all the light.

***

A lot of people were confused on why he liked golf. Tennis was such a fast-paced and heart-racing game that used speed, muscle, and agility—and yet here he was, amongst rolling hills, calmly considering which golf iron to use on this particular hole.

It was all about precision. Tennis was about precision, too. Using the right muscles at the right angles; thinking things through. Strategy in harmony with the body. Right now on the green, Rafa was able to control his stance and the movement of his hips—his muscles were cooperating, his knees were cooperating. They almost felt normal. His iron felt like an extension of his arms, and things were finally clicking into place—despite the triple bogey a few holes back. 

_Well._ People tried to explain to Rafa that he couldn’t be good at everything. Despite laughing along, Rafa sometimes wondered why not. _Roger_ was good at everything—he was even good at being humble. He was even good at sharing his credits and accomplishments. 

”Tennis is a tough sport. There's no draws—but, if there was going to be one, I would have been very happy to accept a draw tonight and share it with Rafa.”

For the first time in 13 years, Rafa had actually wanted to punch Roger during that Australian Open speech. It had been such a foreign feeling, mixing in with the hangover of lust and love that Rafa had tried to tamp down all these years. A draw— _really_. What had gotten into Roger? Or really, as time moved on, Rafa had to ask what had gotten into himself. 

Rafa didn’t like swallowing bitterness, yet lately, it seemed to be all he did. Roger was World Number One, and Rafa had congratulated him in public. At 36, Roger was doing more than at Rafa’s 31. It didn’t matter that Rafa had gotten _La Decima_ last year—it didn’t matter their all-time head-to-head record, or overall match record, or weeks at number one. It didn’t even matter that Rafa had modeled for Tommy Hilfiger while Roger was making stupid pasta commercials. 

Rafa just had one of the best years of his career, and it didn't even matter. He ended as Year-End Number One and his knees gave out. _That’s_ what people remembered: pulling out of five tournaments in a row over his failing body. 

He didn’t have to search for the career obituaries. He knew they were being written, despite his travel plans for Acapulco and the United States. Withdrawing from Australia had cost him so much. Mostly, it had cost him a chance to look at Roger over the net—perhaps to end these strange feelings of bitterness, once and for all. 

Rafa walked down the green, his hands in his khaki pockets. His caddie was somewhere behind him, giving him space, but Rafa could still hear the soft whir of a golf cart. It was white noise to his thoughts: Another charity benefit tomorrow, and people could see that he was able to stand on his own two feet. The doctors had not amputated his legs, no? So he was still here, still playing. And he would keep playing until those legs were completely gone. 

He wondered what Roger’s limit was, but then he answered his own question: it was no doubt when Mirka and the children needed him home. A soft smile played on Rafa’s lips at that— _family._ He could relate. Couldn’t he? He could almost imagine the warmth of Roger’s home, where children played and life was leisurely. Rafa could even imagine himself sitting next to Roger, perhaps a coffee in hand on a Sunday morning, and Roger watching him instead of whatever beautiful scenery existed in Dubai. 

Rafa shook his head, then forced himself to look at the ball. It was a good three lengths from the hole. Maybe he could get it in one stroke—but then, he was no Tiger Woods. Not that Tiger Woods was like Tiger, anymore. The man was as washed up as he was; playing and withdrawing from tournaments with injury after injury. 

Rafa took a deep breath, trying to center himself and failing— _Roger_. Roger was not failing. How did he do it? How did he make everything look so easy and then smile at Rafa afterwards, pulling him in for the warmest of handshakes? Or there would be fingers smoothing over Rafa’s shoulders, trailing to the small of his back, before they would have to part. Sometimes Rafa would distance himself from the net, unable to handle the affection. 

Affection— _ridiculous_. Rafa walked over to his caddie, who already held out a putter for him, as if he knew that Rafa was barely concentrating. And he was right. Rafa felt like a ghost, with one foot in an imaginary life that would never happen, and the other in the painful reality he wanted to escape: Roger was married with kids and it was better that way. Roger was never going to smile at him from that warm and cozy couch in Dubai, then lean in to whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Roger would keep winning grand slams for as long as he wanted while Rafa did plenty of things he did _not_ want, like withdrawing himself five times in a row. 

Or withdrawing himself completely. It was better to send things via text than by talking on the phone or in person. That way, Rafa could not allow himself to imagine anything, even if imagining things was what sometimes kept him going. 

He blew out a breath. The moment he hit the ball, Rafa knew he would miss. And sure enough, the white ball skated along the edge of the hole before rolling to the other side, landing a small distance away. Rafa quickly walked towards it, tapping the ball with his putter in what would surely be an easy in—but not for Rafa. Oh, no. When it skirted the edges again, Rafa bent over in frustration—only to straighten quickly with a hand on his hip. 

It was fine. Had he truly felt something, or was it just a habit? Rafa rubbed the spot anyway, then allowed his feet to shuffle the golf ball into the hole, where it finally met its mark. It was illegal, but well—the charity benefit was tomorrow, not today. And Tomás, his caddie, was already leaning over to pick it up without a word, ready to head to the next hole. 

If Tomás was willing to let things go, then perhaps Rafa could learn to do so, as well.

***

> ”He should come around. I’m lonely here. My family is not here.”

Rafa rolled his eyes at the text message from Mary. She was supposed to be at one of the benefit tables, socializing with donors, not teasing him with Twitter posts. How accurate were those tweets, anyway? Didn’t she know it would rile him up? Of course she knew it would—that was probably half her intention. 

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, noticing the stark darkness of his blue suit jacket against the bright marble of the restroom. His skin even looked darker against the white and gray walls, against the opulence that surrounded him. His eyes were dark, too, as they contemplated—he was already done with this evening, and that was even before the evening started. He was already done with Leonardo DiCaprio, although his blue eyes had been more appreciative than Rafa had expected; roving openly from head to toe. 

Rafa glanced at the dark cellphone screen, laying like an invitation on the sink countertop. How easy it would be to text Roger, even as a joke. Years ago Rafa would’ve pulled some prank, roping Mary into miming a call girl service to Roger’s hotel room, or something similar. Or, hell, Rafa could pitch his voice a little higher— _I heard you were lonely, Mr. Federer._

Except he couldn’t joke. Not anymore. Rafa placed his hand over the cellphone screen, as if to block any impulses. All he could imagine was the answer to that question. Perhaps Roger would say, _I am. What would you do about it?_ And Rafa would have to fight his honesty, would have to not say, _Anything you want._

Rafa slipped the phone into his pocket; the decision was made and he would not think about it. Later, he would miss the buzzing as he mingled with guests: 

> Is Leo better company than me?

***

Years ago, when they had first started dating, Rafa had taken Mary to a similar benefit. They had been much younger and more nervous, before they were pros at managing the attention and the stress. Mary had clung to his arm for most of the evening, and if Rafa were honest, he had perhaps been clutching back. If he were not careful, sometimes she would accidentally step on one of his shoes with her heel—followed by a long string of apologies that he would fumble with accepting. My, they had been a pair. Especially when she had stepped on his foot and he had tossed the champagne glass in his hands, with half the contents going down the front of her sapphire dress.

Their gracelessness had only had one moment of reprieve that evening, when _she_ had walked in. Mainly because Mary had stood stock-still while Rafa was left to puzzle through her reaction—she had never frozen like that, not with him. Yet here was she was, his usually chatty and cheerful Mary, silent and breathless—helplessly staring at this blonde woman in a white dress, her smile like clouds parting for the sun.

_”Isobel,”_ Mary had murmured, then continued to watch as she downed the remainder of her glass. And Rafa would have tried to ignore it—cajole Mary back into conversations—except that as they moved through the ballroom they seemed to be in orbit: whenever Rafa had turned his head there this woman was, the center of attention; and there was Mary’s gaze along with it, drinking her in.

When they were finally alone, Mary had whispered, _”Sorry.”_ But that apology was completely unnecessary; theirs was a friendly business arrangement, after all. But Rafa had asked anyway, _”Were you in love with her?”_

Mary had only looked out the window; her silhouette brushed with midnight as they drove home. It was only when they were in line for the valet, about to turn over their car, that she softly said, _”I still am, Rafa—always. She’s my universe.”_

Rafa had not understood it then. The phrasing seemed so dramatic and poetic. But when his eyes had followed Roger at Laver Cup—like so many times before, throughout the years, unable to tear himself away—there were no other words that were adequate. When he tried not to think of Roger, he thought of him anyway. When he tried to avoid Roger, there was a magnetic pull that always brought them together—meeting in the same hallways at tournaments, being in the same locker room, the same restaurants without planning. 

They would lock eyes, and Roger’s would widen with surprise. _You again._

_”Yes,”_ Mary would agree later. _”We are like the moon stalking the sun across the sky.”_

***

Rafa had cried, actually. Maybe not as dramatically as the event organizers had led on, but the kind that stung the corners of his eyes and left them warm and angry.

Again. It had happened _again._ Withdrawing from Acapulco made six tournaments in a row, now. Rafa wanted to bury his head under a pillow, but that would require rolling over. Instead he held the pillow over his face, as if the world were suffocating him—and in a way it was, with all the questions. _Monte Carlo? Barcelona? Roland Garros?_

Rafa groaned with the last one. Ever since people started wondering about the French Open, Roger had been forced to make comment after comment. It didn’t matter that Roger might be kind and actually mean the sincerity. Again, Roger was effusive with praise: "I still think he is the best player on clay and that he will always be the best player in history on clay.”

Rafa breathed into the pillow. 

”I’d love to play him on clay in the best of five sets.”

Oh, would he? Rafa would love that, too. So he could finally see Roger across the net, looking as helpless and lost as Rafa felt now. If Rafa did actually make it to the Open, they would have to drag him kicking and screaming from the court, no matter how much everything hurt. He would invite Roger into his home, but he would not let him invade and conquer. Roger would be a guest, and perhaps, finally, Rafa could—

Rafa flung the pillow from his face and stared at the ceiling. Did he actually think beating Roger would make everything go away? He had beaten Roger many times before. But that was when he was so transparent with his affections, so open with his admiration and lacking bitterness. Back when Rafa might have hoped, or dreamed, or—

He covered his face with a hand. He was a grown man now, and hopefully much wiser. The only reason he wanted to see Roger across the net was to regain his confidence. Rafa had hoped to do that in Australia, and was so close to doing so—he had wanted to see Roger’s face over the net in order to slam that door shut and shake the house it stood in. The 4-0 record was ridiculous—2018 was supposed to be a different year. 

And yet Rafa was the one who remained shaken. Truth be told, it had probably started months before 2017 and that Australian Open. Roger’s mind games could go all the way back to the opening of the Academy in 2016, when every photo between them felt like a dirty piece of evidence. 

Rafa shook his head, although he was alone in the room. Using the term “mind games” was not exactly what he meant. Roger was certainly strategic and smart, but those tactics stayed on the court. No—Rafa had probably done this to himself. _He_ had wanted to pick out the photos for the collage the Academy gifted. _He_ had wanted to make sure everything was perfect and meaningful. But what Rafa wound up giving Roger were his second favorite photos, not the first that he could so clearly see in his mind: 

His hands touching Roger’s stomach at Wimbledon, his eyes closed as their foreheads touched. Holding Roger close as he cried during that Australian Open loss; a man so plain with his feelings that Rafa had to comfort him. Their bodies always so close together, the net always imaginary and meaningless. The way they laughed together, touched each other, smiled at each other—

Rafa swallowed the building feelings and let them settle in his throat. At the back of his mind, he had always known that he was probably obvious. But seeing the evidence—not diminishing with time, but only growing worse—had been eye-opening and mortifying. And worst of all? Roger had let him do it, had let him do all of it. Was it out of politeness? Kindness? Surely not out of interest, no matter what he said. 

”I really don’t imagine myself living, ah—”

”Switzerland? Maybe… sometimes?”

Rafa couldn’t help the small smile, a shadow of the large one that had bloomed at the Academy event. ”You can invite me,” Rafa had answered him, despite knowing where his mind went with the insinuation. Dubai was replaced by the Swiss mountains in Rafa’s head, and they were even closer on that cozy couch he had envisioned before. Roger would touch his face, his fingertips trailing the jaw line, his thumb on Rafa’s bottom lip—

”Yeah, I’ll invite you!”

And Roger had, several times. But _why?_ Rafa continuously wondered why. Especially when the photos were so… _embarrassing_. Wasn’t Roger embarrassed? Had he known the whole time the way Rafa looked at him? Had Roger known and been trying to use it to his advantage? 

Rafa didn’t want to think so. He stared at the ceiling, painted periwinkle with white crown molding, and thought about what Mary had told him: _”So what? People grow up; people change. Roger knows that. He was young once, too.”_ But remembering the photos from the Academy event, all Rafa saw was the same love-struck kid from ten years ago. He just couldn’t do that, anymore—and all last year had been him trying to put those feelings on a shelf. 

Except he had failed. He had probably failed from the moment they were left alone in the Academy, away from the prying eyes of the cameras and the press. The hallways had been silent except for their footsteps, with the lighting dimmed pale from the tall windows. 

Rafa could remember Roger’s dark suit, the blue-checkered pattern of his dress shirt left open at the collar. Rafa had taken in his fill of that tanned neck as Roger had looked around at all the displays, a small smile gracing those lips. If Rafa were more egotistical, he would’ve thought that Roger was proud of him. 

”Look at your history,” Roger had said. His voice had felt like amber, poured over the weariness of their day to make it into something beautiful. 

”Our history, no?” Rafa had said quietly. They had stopped in front of their Wimbledon 2008 kits; a reminder of the greatest moment in their rivalry. 

Roger’s oak-colored eyes had been lit up by the display case, and his small smile had turned into a grin. ”Our history—I like it.” Roger’s fingers had hovered above the glass, almost unwilling to stop themselves. ”When I think of my tennis, I always think of us.”

That sentiment was so achingly familiar. One of the reasons that Rafa had invited Roger to the opening of his academy, after all. There was a part of him that couldn’t envision the day without him, because he couldn’t envision his career without him. It made the kits in front of them even more mesmerizing—what would his life be like without that victory? Without that moment? Without it involving Roger? His hands had almost touched that glass too, thinking how close he had been to all those things being different; the last fact being the worst of them all. 

When Roger’s hand had touched his shoulder, soft and soothing, Rafa had leaned into it, not thinking or watching himself. 

”I think 2017 will be our year.” Roger’s voice had been so sure, so close to his ear. ”I can feel it.” 

Rafa had felt the same, but he had to ask, ”How do you know this?” 

Had he whispered? All he remembered was knowing that if he had turned his head he would probably do something foolish, something irredeemable. 

But Roger had smoothed his hand over his back, and soon they were standing shoulder to shoulder, impossibly close. 

”Because I trust what I’m feeling,” Roger had said, soft and low. ”Do you?”

And over a year later, Rafa had the same answer: No, he did not. How could he, when his heart made him feel things that would never be? When his mind seemingly played tricks on him—when _Roger_ , perhaps, was playing tricks on him. 

As Rafa stared at the ceiling of his hotel room, his chest stung from remembering—how he had said nothing, how they had stood shoulder to shoulder for the longest time in silence, until the world had slowly crowded in.

***

> I think I’m shaving it off.

Rafa smiled at the Whatsapp message. Someone would answer Roger soon. It would probably be Sascha, with his usual smart-ass remarks about Roger being an old man, then with Dominic chiming in as a voice of reason… until he, inevitably, also wound up calling Roger an old man. Rafa chuckled as he looked at as his dangling feet over the water—Roger would then likely respond with a series of emojis, and then there would be more emojis, and then Roger would go for the gifs. Rafa shook his head—he had a hard time believing Roger was the eldest of all of them when he did stuff like that. Rafa wasn’t even sure how to download gifs to their group texts, to be honest. Sometimes he would send pictures of Mallorca, when the water was the deepest aquamarine, and leave it at that. 

He looked back down at his phone, remembering a particular conversation with a monkey shoving a laptop. Marin had told the group that he was _working, thank you_ , and Roger had used that gif in response. Rafa had laughed hard at that one. Leave it to Roger, who made things look so easy with minimal effort, to respond that way. Rafa thumbed through the text box, looking for it—maybe he could figure out how to save it, somehow. He could show it to Mary when she reminded him that he was supposed to be _working, not fishing, thank you_. Although he had swam in the pool for a long time today; relishing the freedom of his legs in the water, the way that things had finally stopped hurting.

It took a moment of scrolling before Rafa finally realized that it was _not_ the group text box that he was looking at. Roger had messaged him directly, and looking at the time stamp, Roger could see that Rafa had been staring at the box for a whole five minutes now. _Great._

They were both online, and Rafa had to think of something to say. _But I like the beard_ would probably not work. He had spent way too much time thinking of how it would feel—against his cheek, against his stomach, against his thighs—

Rafa cleared his throat. That was not supposed to be his business. _Wife complain?_ seemed safer, and he typed it in. 

Rafa closed the app, thinking about the photos of the scruff he had seen. Maybe Roger had used the beard as a good luck charm, letting it grow until his starting record inevitably ended. Roger had begun his year in remarkable fashion, again, while Rafa was left behind—maybe Rafa could grow a mustache when he returned to the court. Maybe his facial hair would be good luck, too. He touched his upper lip and cheeks, feeling the five o’clock shadow, when his phone chimed. 

> No. She likes it. The kids keep touching it.

Rafa smiled. He could imagine little hands all over Roger’s face, and Roger chuckling as he let them do it. The thought squeezed his heart, and Rafa didn’t want to think why. Mary wanted kids, but hopefully she would find someone she truly loved to have them with. 

> Maybe I grow mustache. Seemed to work for you.

Rafa wasn’t sure how Roger did it so quickly, but there was a picture of a cartoon character in response—a bow-legged cowboy with a mustache that curled up at the ends, almost dragging to the floor. Rafa’s answering laughter probably scared some fish. 

> Yes, like that. Will step on myself as I play. Papers talk about easy win at FO because I trip.

Rafa immediately regretted that one—he didn’t want to ask Roger about Roland Garros. His team already discussed it non-stop, and Rafa was sick of it. They were confident in his abilities, and Rafa was too… mostly. But then, he had been so confident about Acapulco and the States—been so sure that he could do them. 

> You would still beat me. The stache would probably help you slide better.

Rafa smirked, despite his somber thoughts. There was Roger again, full of praise. And there was Rafa again, wondering exactly _why_ as his phone chimed with another message: 

> You are going to FO, aren’t you?

Was this an attempt for insider information? After losing Indian Wells, Roger’s team was probably taking the idea of the clay season more seriously. But no matter how nice Roger was, Rafa was going to hold those cards close to his chest. 

> I think I go to Wimbledon and beat you again.

Was that a warning? Rafa didn't know. He stared at the water, watching the blues deepening into black as the sun started to set. Just like a week ago, he was working himself into frustration. Fishing usually relaxed him, but here he was, thinking of revenge and Roger—thinking of Roger and revenge. Thinking of Roger, period. 

It felt like such a long time since he last saw him. Since they exchanged hellos in the locker room at the Australian Open—since Rafa had the excitement of Roger being so near. There was no chance of running into Roger in Mallorca, but there had been plenty of times at the Open. Rafa could sit on any random bench, for example, and suddenly Roger would appear. He would smile and say something as simple as, _Nice day, isn’t it?_ , and Rafa would have to resist saying, _Yes, now that you’re here._

But it was dark, and Rafa was alone on the dock. The sun had completely disappeared from the horizon, replaced by all the distant yellow lights from town. It was beautiful, in its own way—by himself, he could almost imagine anything. Secrets could be kept here; maybe he could leave them here. 

Rafa swallowed as his phone screen lit up: 

> Sounds like a date. I’ll see you there.

***

At other times of frustration, Rafa would walk around Manacor. He would not even try to hide his appearance, or walk at an empty time of day—those times didn't exist, anyway. Instead he kept to his favorite back streets, and people knew his presence like a tree that grew in someone’s yard—they were constant, they were expected. Most importantly, they were not notable.

This was also how he saw Isobel a second time, and many times afterwards. A new café on a familiar corner had drawn his attention, and when he had entered, there was the woman he saw at the party: her blonde hair had been pulled up, a black apron tied on. The café had been empty, and her back had been turned as she hummed a song, completely oblivious to his presence. 

Rafa had stood on the threshold, listening to the notes instead of turning around. What had possessed him, then? He had probably been curious—Mary knew all about Roger, but he had known nothing of this stranger; this beautiful woman that hummed something so familiar. 

When she had finally reached the chorus— _Whatever will be, will be_ —Rafa had closed the door behind him, setting off a series of bells. 

“Oh!” She had turned quickly, startled, and Rafa had held out a hand and his most charming smile. Maybe the shop had been closed—though the door had been open? Or, now that Rafa knew Isobel, perhaps she had been lost in her own world; so absorbed in cleaning and humming. 

She had stepped to the counter quickly, her smile contrite. _”Sorry—how can I help you?”_

He had paused for a moment, thinking. There were so many things that Rafa had known instantly, just from that sentence. One of them being that her Spanish was proper, but her accent was not. 

_”Cappuccino”_ , he had said, and then, _”with hazelnut, please.”_

The cups had been white and like bowls, and Rafa had tipped well. A part of him felt like he had to. When she had brought over his coffee to a small wooden table, he saw that a large, white flower had been drawn in the foam. 

There were also daisies bordering her apron, he had realized, as Isobel had moved away. She had also stopped before a chalkboard of specials, where daisies had been drawn there, too—white and blue, with bright yellow centers. 

Goodness, so _this_ was the type of person Mary was in love with. Creative, and admittedly… _cute._ How had it happened? He had never asked, and Mary had kept the details to herself. But in that coffee shop, he had watched Isobel out of the corner of his eye—watched as she still hummed and wiped counters, but had also watched him in return. 

She had not been as glamorous as at the party—but then, who truly was? He had thought of Roger, who did high editorials for ESPN and GQ, yet wore the ugliest t-shirts on the beach; hair unruly, sunglasses large and plastic, with a flamingo tote. Rafa had to keep himself from laughing at the memory of pink flip-flops. 

_”You have such a nice smile,”_ Isobel had suddenly said, then covered her mouth. 

It had surprised him; her quiet voice had seemed loud in the empty room. But then, he had thought, maybe he could surprise her, too. 

“Thank you. I think you are a friend of Mary’s, no?” 

Her eyes had gone wide—they were not sky blue, but the slate of rainy days—and Rafa had smiled larger at her reaction. A better word for Isobel was… _sweet_. Isobel seemed ridiculously sweet. 

“I _thought_ you were her Rafa,” Isobel had said, sitting down at his table. “But I didn’t… I didn’t want to bother you.” She had smiled sheepishly. “But yes, Xisca—your Mary—is a friend of mine. She’s been so… _great._ ”

The last had been said with such depth of feeling that _great_ seemed like an understatement. And maybe it had been, since Isobel’s pale cheeks had bloomed roses. She had stared out the window for a moment, as if remembering something in particular that had made her happy. 

Rafa had wanted to say, _You have a nice smile, too_. But instead he had an idea: “Do you watch tennis?” 

Isobel had needed a moment to blink away a memory, “What? Tennis?” Then she had shook her head. “No. But Xisca tells me you play a little… right?” 

_A little._ Yes, him and Roger played casually on weekends. A giggle had escaped him at the thought—my, she was funny. It had been settled then that he actually liked Isobel. He hoped that Mary would keep her. 

Isobel had squinted at him. “What? Why are you laughing?” 

“No reason—you should come watch me practice,” Rafa had asked, thinking, _I’ll make it worth your while_. Mary normally didn’t watch such things, but he had the feeling that if he dropped an, _Oh, did you know?_ she would suddenly find the time to do so. 

And she had. After coaxing Isobel to attend, it was common to see Mary and Isobel huddled together on his court benches. Rafa had been, and continued to be, immeasurably pleased with himself—he would turn his head to see them leaning towards each other, whispering in each other’s ears. Mary’s hand on an arm; Isobel tucking hair behind her ear. Laughter. 

_Good._ This was something Rafa could do—he would fly them around the world, if it would make Mary happy. All so that they could mirror each other’s postures; finish each other’s sentences. Smile the widest smiles. All while Rafa was thinking, _Do they know? Do they see themselves?_

Would they continue if they did?

***

There was certainly something _off_. Rafa didn’t have the words for it, mainly because it wasn’t him. But when he watched replays of Roger against Kokkinakis at Miami, there was a feeling that was palpable, undeniable. A feeling that settled in Rafa’s gut, making him reach for his phone and having to stop himself from texting, _What’s wrong? What’s going on?_

Not that it was his business—not that he was even sympathetic. Rafa wasn’t playing Miami, either. He would even be re-crowned World Number One as a result. But he did think of the match often, especially after Roger announced he was not playing the clay season. 

Rafa snorted. So much for all that angst. So much for “I’d love to play him best of five sets.” So much for… all of it. Rafa waved a hand at the clay court, as if dismissing it, and then put away the water hose. It was one less obstacle this season. He thought of Dominic, Sascha—even Novak—and the list of opponents was long enough. 

But _still_. Still.

> I feel like I should send you flowers. Do you like daisies?

Rafa rolled his eyes at the text. Mary had been sending him articles all morning about their “anniversary”—the first time Rafa had met, and beaten, Roger in Miami. It was an event that lived in infamy, despite so many of their matches surpassing it since. It was not truly the first time Rafa had met Roger—they had done so off-court before then—yet it had captured the public’s imagination. Even more-so this year, since both of them had been driven underground with injuries or losses.

Unexpected losses— _painful_ losses. Rafa looked at the text, thinking that at least Roger still had his sense of humor. 

> No. 1 good enough present. Thank you. :) 

Rafa hated smileys, but he wanted Roger to know he was joking. If anything, Rafa hated gaining back number one under such circumstances—he wanted _both_ of them to be playing. He wanted the ranking back after beating Roger again and again, not from sitting on his famous ass in Mallorca. 

> Glad you like it, baby.

_Baby_. Rafa sucked in a breath. He knew that Roger was just joking back with him—like that night in Prague, after winning doubles at Laver Cup. Roger had said it while delivering a disappointing blow: ”Don’t want you to get your hopes up, baby.”

_Baby._ It had been a sucker punch. The kind that had twisted his insides, yet had thrilled him so much. Had he really been disappointed, or delighted with the tender sentiment? Roger had touched his shoulder—yet Roger had also quashed any hopes of playing doubles again. Like so many things with Roger Federer, Rafa had mixed and conflicting feelings. He had rewatched footage of the press briefing since, and while he had seen himself smiling and tilting his head side to side, there had also been something else there—the need to look like that he could take a joke. 

Was everything a joke with Roger? Maybe. Was there really any difference? Maybe—Rafa thought again of that loss in Miami; that “off” feeling in his gut. Maybe Roger took it all in stride—maybe Roger wasn’t a bitter creature, like him. Or maybe Roger masked it all with humor; licked his wounds in private, joked aloud in public. 

Was _Rafa_ the joke? Again, did it make any difference? Only to Rafa, probably. 

He was exhausted when he walked into his condo, dropping his bags and keys in their designated spots. The windows had been left open, and he could hear and smell the outside. Rafa toed off his shoes as he went to them, thinking the fresh air would clear his head. He would probably look at the text message from Roger a few more times, then try to forget it—maybe have a glass of wine, then try to forget it. Get ready for bed, then try to forget it. 

He opened the french doors to his balcony, which had a nice view of the water. The sight relaxed him, and yet his mind wandered—another beach a long time ago, far across the Atlantic. It felt like another world, a different version of him. Rafa had not been in love with Roger 14 years ago—he could be idolizing, ecstatic in playing someone he admired. Rafa remembered that he had thrilled in beating Roger; had not been self-conscious of what he did or said. They might have shaken hands—Rafa remembered touching Roger’s skin, thinking it was too brief, too fleeting. He had wanted to chase that feeling—and been denied. 

Rafa furrowed his brows. He had not been in love, then; there was no way he could’ve been. Right? But like other times of playing Roger, something was usually suspect; a twisting puzzle on what had just happened, needing to be unraveled. 

Rafa sighed and turned to walk into the kitchen—perhaps he would have a beer, instead—when he saw the glass vase with blue daisies sitting on a countertop. The color popped against the white cabinets; a dark blue that bordered purple, with bright yellow centers. Not many of them—perhaps one for each day of the week—yet when bundled together, it was a simple bouquet.

Only Mary and the maids had a key to his condo. And while Mary had a wicked sense of humor, he doubted that she would prank him like this. 

There was a small white card that said _Thanks — Roger_ in printed italicized script. Unassuming; leaned up against the thin glass vase. 

Rafa furrowed his brows again—thanks for _what_ , exactly? Beating him all those years ago? Being a thorn in Roger’s side ever since? Or the sportsman-like answer that Roger usually gave, about how Rafa made him a better player?

In case it was a prank of Mary’s, Rafa texted a vague _I like blue daisies._

It only took a moment for the screen to light up: 

> I thought so.

***

Davis Cup wound up being exactly what Rafa needed. He liked team events, and even better, he liked playing with other Spanish players—David, Feli, and especially Marc. Things were not complicated; he could whoop and holler and even grab asses without thinking twice or giving offense. He could experience camaraderie without boundaries—he could be playful, and his teammates would either ignore him or roll their eyes. It was pure _fun_ , and even better, he got on the court again and won both of his matches.

He loved tennis—sometimes he forgot that. Sometimes it got lost in the shuffle of other obstacles and obligations. But Rafa relished the smooth movements of his body; his muscles fluid, yet strong under his skin. He could trust them, finally—he could slide and predict where his feet ended up. There were no questions, no worries. 

Rafa felt so good, that he almost felt transported in time, back to when he had won the U.S. Open. Back to when he had been dominating and fearless. Back before… well, before his knees had failed him. Back before things had gone terribly, terribly wrong at the end of the year—at the beginning of _this_ year. 

Rafa shook his head—it was a positive mindset he struggled to hold on to. He couldn’t help it; above all, he was a realist. Also, the press and its headlines were cynical—outwardly mocking, even, that he could sweep the clay season two years in a row. There was a new “Prince of Clay,” after all, of which Rafa got question after question about. 

He rolled his eyes—not just because Dominic was a friend, but because they actually thought Dominic could beat him. This room of reporters—on camera and off—thought he was fragile and vulnerable. 

Maybe a few months ago. But _now_? 

“Rafa, excuse me—how do you feel about Roger skipping the clay season? Have you talked to him at all?” a reporter asked him from the back. 

Rafa wanted to shrug—wanted to ask, _Roger, who?_ in cheekiness—but he should’ve known that this question would come up. He had prepared himself to be uncomfortable at this press event for Monte Carlo, a day before his first ranked match. But Roger’s announcement felt like ages ago. Wasn’t this old news? 

But their rivalry would never be old news. He felt transported in time again, back to when he had received question after question about Roger at the U.S. Open—back to when he had made that comment about not being Roger’s boyfriend, and the press eating that up. Mary had especially delighted in that one, sending him headline after headline that had mutated his statement; one of the best being _I Don’t Want to Date Roger Federer_ in some small-town newspaper. 

Rafa felt himself grin, remembering that one. Roger had even leaned into him at the Laver Cup dinner, whispering, “So, I hear we’re not dating?”

“Well—” Rafa started, wondering what diplomacy might call for with this question. So many eyes were on him; so many people on the edge of their seats. “He says he will love to play against me again in best-of-five sets on clay….” Where it would happen, Rafa had to wonder. “He said that a couple days ago—and I thought he would play Roland Garros.” His team had even strategized for it, even. “Then a few days later, he says he will not play in one event.” And if Roger would not play a grand slam, why would he play any clay tournaments, at all? “So there’s a little bit of controversy with that.” 

_Controversy_ was not quite the word he wanted, and Rafa knew it would bite him the moment he saw heads bent, typing on laptops or tweeting with their thumbs. It was frustrating to watch—he only meant that he heard so many people talking about it. Like gossip, but not necessarily in a bad way. 

But he felt the air shift, anyway; as if a door had opened that was holding back the chill from a draft. Like a terrible first impression, Rafa felt that he was suddenly climbing uphill to make up for his mistake. But from _what_ , exactly? That Roger would read or hear his words and get upset? It was ridiculous—if anyone would understand that he had misspoken, it would be Roger, who poked fun at his English all the time. Yet Rafa couldn’t shake the feeling, grinning nervously before feeling himself swallow. 

“So you think Federer is scared of you, then?” someone from the middle asked, and the room was once again silent, holding their breath.

Rafa wanted to laugh—the reporters _had_ seen the 4-0 record from last year, right? And he had been injured the last few months. Not to mention that Roger had never been scared of anybody or anything, even when Rafa had been beating him years ago on a regular basis. 

Rafa could only shake his head and stand up—he was done with answering questions. He would not dig this hole further. He politely thanked everyone for their time and tried to smile—perhaps this upcoming week would be more eventful than what was said at this press conference. 

Later, Mary would joke as she asked, _”Is this how boys flirt with each other? Through taunting?”_

_”Ah, yes,”_ Rafa would answer as he rolled his eyes. _”It’s the gay mating call—”_ and he interrupted her impending sarcastic comment with, _”which is why I’m still by myself.”_

And likely would remain that way, considering Roger’s radio silence afterwards.

***

The silence wasn’t disturbing, in itself. Their friendship had many periods of no communication; the longest being their months of injury in 2016. Roger and him were simply not attached at the hip, that way—and mainly, Rafa had large reserves of willpower to enforce these lapses of silence.

It was just that… well, it was weird that it wasn’t _Rafa_ doing the no-communicating. Especially since Roger’s nature usually had him chattering about everything and anything—the Whatsapp Laver Cup group texts absolute proof of this. Rafa’s phone would usually ding on the regular to show Roger abusing the text box as a means to poke and prod others. 

Hell, after Laver Cup last year, Roger had sent out a cheeky group text saying, _MISSING — Elusive Spanish Bull, last seen in Prague. Contact World No. 2 if you have any info, thank you :)_ because Rafa had ignored his texts for a few days. Rafa should’ve responded with _working, thank you_ while he was in Beijing—but he had been ignoring him on purpose, then.

Was Roger ignoring him now? _On purpose?_ There were even tumbleweeds in the group texts; not a gif or emoji in sight. 

Rafa tried not to let it bother him. Roger was just as busy as he was, even if he had no tournaments. But the itch at the back of his brain felt so familiar; the gnawing in his stomach so much like Prague and the weeks afterwards. He tried not to feel the same sense of guilt—he had _really_ needed to ignore Roger then, for both their sakes—but now things were in reverse. 

Before, Rafa knew why they were silent. But _now_? Even though Rafa had clarified his “controversy” comment to the press? He had no idea—why it was happening, or why it would even bug him.

Rafa tilted his head back, letting his mind wander as he settled in the hot bath. He didn’t do these things often, but after winning Monte Carlo, Mary had ordered him to “de-stress”— the drawn bath had been waiting for him, along with a plate of french fries and a Diet Coke, in his hotel room. Rafa had grumbled a bit, but really, the way that Mary knew him was sort of touching, at times. 

_”Why don’t you just text him?”_ And when Rafa had not answered her, Mary had rolled her eyes and said, _”Stupid boys.”_

Yes, probably—Rafa sighed, thinking there was really nothing to be stupid about. Not that Mary had room to talk, anyway; considering her recent gloominess over Isobel being in America, visiting her ex-husband, leaving Mary to bite all her nails down to the nubs. 

_”Why don’t you just text her?”_ Rafa had echoed with a grin—only for Mary to beat him to the punchline, offering her middle finger as a response. _Touché_. 

At least Isobel was technically single. But Mary had imagined all sorts of scenarios anyway, considering that Isobel had never wanted the divorce in the first place. 

_”She’s as straight as they come,”_ Mary would answer miserably to Rafa’s prodding. 

_”How do you even know this?”_ Rafa would challenge—because, really, anyone with eyeballs just had to look at them to see chemistry. On a recent shopping trip, after watching Mary and Isobel walking hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder, Rafa had asked himself _girl friends or girlfriends?_ before shaking his head—Mary would’ve told him, of course. Wouldn’t she? 

Well, women—and straight people, for that matter—were always nebulous. 

Rafa slid further in the bathtub, allowing his mouth to go under the water while his ankles rested on the fixtures. He tried to relax his shoulders, but he still felt tense—the results of the day, mostly. 

Roger was also nebulous. 

It was funny how Rafa’s mind always went there—no matter how far or strange the topic, it always strayed back to the most mysterious person he knew. And really, Roger was so open and out-going that to call him “mysterious” didn’t seem right. He was private about the kids and Mirka, as he should be—but everything _else_? Rafa felt like he knew the basics, like his birthday, or favorite color, or—

No, the word that Rafa was looking for was _motivations._ That was always the problem, and had been forever, especially for the last year. That's what made the silence so discomfiting—he couldn’t figure out what Roger meant by it; just like he couldn’t figure out Roger, in general. It had taken Rafa a long time, for example, to even figure out whether Roger even genuinely liked him as a person. Not just for the cameras, the events, the sportsmanship. So many people played that media game, and Roger should’ve been no exception. 

But Roger was always kind to him over the years, regardless of whether the cameras were watching. If Rafa had any lingering doubts, they would’ve been dispelled by Laver Cup—Roger had been so over-the-top with his affections; overwhelming with his touch, his smiles, his laughter. 

Affections. _That’s_ why Rafa had needed to ignore him afterwards. As much as Rafa had tried not to let things go to his head—or fall into his heart—they had done so, anyway. The whole weekend had been set up for his ruin, despite Rafa’s best intentions—probably from the moment the Laver Cup dinner had started, to be honest. 

”I never thought I was going to introduce this player to you guys, or in my life—”

Oh, Rafa had been _doomed_. He had felt the answering grin breaking his face; breaking his resolve, completely. 

Rafa had been such a fool. 

”I don’t want to kill your expectations, baby.”

He had been so spoiled. He had hoarded all of Roger’s attentions and so much of his hugs, his adjoining space, that Rafa had almost gotten _used_ to them. Had barely blinked when Roger placed a hand on his bare thigh on the double’s sidelines—then in the locker room, the press room, the taxi back to their hotel. 

Rafa felt the echo of those touches now, beneath the water, sliding upward. 

They had probably meant nothing. When Roger had leaned in to kiss his cheek during their goodbyes, that had probably meant nothing either, despite the cramped space of their car. Rafa had been able to smell the scent of him, though, and it had filled his imagination afterwards—the musk combined with the soft touch on skin; the weight of his body as Roger leaned forward, legs touching. The look in Roger’s eyes as they had pulled apart—Rafa had been pushed back against the seat and Roger had almost seemed on top of him, looking down at him. 

“We work so well together,” Roger had said softly, watching him. “Don’t you think?”

Rafa had not been able to think. The taxi driver had popped the trunk for their bags, rocking the car, and Rafa had looked away—had looked at all the fans waiting outside their hotel; had waited to hear Roger’s car door open. What was Rafa supposed to say to _that_ , anyway? The truth? _Yes—sometimes it is all I think about._

Later, that following Sunday, Roger had wanted a proper goodbye in the locker room before Rafa left for Beijing. And Rafa sometimes imagined that it would’ve been another cheek-kiss, another close embrace—and then, as Rafa took himself in hand, like now, he imagined how it could’ve gone further: being pushed against those blue lockers, with Roger’s harsh and quick breathing on his neck. The way their bodies would’ve melded as Roger repeated, “We work so well together, don’t you think?” 

But Rafa had run away from it. What was a “proper goodbye,” anyway? Not what Rafa had wanted, certainly. So when he had turned away—telling Roger with a laugh, “I have seen you enough!”—it had probably been for the best. Especially since Rafa imagined disappointment in Roger’s eyes; his sad smile a part of Rafa’s wishful thinking. 

Rafa blew out a breath, looking at the small white clumps on the bathwater’s surface before they broke apart. He did this way too often; this re-examining and replaying of things he could no longer fix. Like Shanghai, which had felt so fractured—like a consequence of Laver Cup—and Rafa couldn’t even pinpoint exactly what had happened. He just remembered being beaten by Roger for the fourth time that year; the sense of resignation overwhelming as he watched Roger laugh and speak impromptu Chinese for the roaring crowd, once again the champion. 

They had stood side-by-side, and Roger had kept sneaking glances—but had also kept a polite distance. Had spoken polite _nonsense_ and not their usual banter, their usual closeness—it had felt cold when Rafa left with his runner-up plate, wide and awkward. 

But isn’t that what Rafa had wanted? Of course it was what he had wanted. _Still_ wanted, and which Roger was currently providing—the small texts and media shout-outs fading away and dwindling to nothingness. If Rafa were honest, it all had been a long time coming—Rafa had been responding less and less for months now. 

Rafa drained the bathtub, not feeling the chill as he dried himself off; trying to go for a distant numbness that would keep him sane for the weeks to come.

***

The atmosphere at tournaments was like a buzzing insect. Even when crowds were supposed to remain completely silent, there was still a strange energy—perhaps a hum, like wings, that hung in the air. It could build into something—a burst that erupted when he won Barcelona, then won his 50th consecutive match on clay in Madrid. Or it suspended him, lifeless, sometimes—Rafa could play under most conditions, but he was still vulnerable like anyone else. It might not show on his face, but an anxious or hostile crowd could string him up, like a puppet.

Before his match with “The Prince of Clay”—and Rafa tried not to laugh; he respected Dominic a great deal—there was a humming he could not ignore. A buzz that went through the staff and visitors of the event and started to distract him.

_”Did you hear?”_ they would say, then thumb something on their phones. Their faces would look awestruck, but not devastated. Rafa took that to mean that nobody died—and he was grateful for that—but then the faces would look at him, then quickly look away when noticed. 

He tried to get through practice, but then he couldn’t take it anymore. The spectators were barely watching him, glued to their screens. Even Moya was avoiding eye contact, pointing here and there. 

It was finally Uncle Toni who asked him, _”Did you have any warning of this?”_

Rafa wanted to angrily say, _”No one will even talk to me!”_ when Uncle Toni shook his head and said, _”Roger is an idiot.”_

And it seemed to click for Rafa, then, what all the signs were about. The hush, the electricity, the awe—that period of absence and silence—and how it could only mean one thing. Rafa was already marching to his phone when Carlos Moya told Uncle Toni to _”Shut it,”_ while Uncle Toni raised his voice to say, _”About his playing Rome? Seriously? Stupid!”_

Roger was going to enter the draw for Rome, despite saying he would skip clay season? Of course he would— _of course he would!_ Whoever said that Roger was predictable? Rafa heard shouting behind him as he shoved a door open, waiting for the ringing to begin in his ear. His steps echoed loudly in the hall to the locker room, and staff seemed to duck for cover as he rushed past them. 

“Hello?”

Rafa swallowed bile as he moved past the locker room benches, then started to pace around them. He couldn’t even talk—it was such a strong hand squeezing his chest, taking his voice. Why was he angry—this _was_ anger, right? 

“Rafa? Are you there?”

Roger couldn’t even tell him that he had been thinking about it. And at the height of Rafa’s streak, when the tuning fork on the crowd was glass shattering—did Roger think he was going to break? Was he seizing his moment? 

“Okay, I’m going to hang up—”

“ _Rome_ ,” Rafa finally spat out, then took a shallow breath. “You enter Rome?” And when Rafa tasted blood in his mouth, the real question came out: “Roland Garros?” 

There was a pause, and then, “Well, it’s nice hearing from you, too. Was starting to think you had lost my number—”

Rafa threw his phone—immediately regretting it as he watched it shatter against a concrete wall—but he almost didn’t care. What, he was going to have a nice and pleasant conversation with Roger Federer, who had lulled Rafa into some sense of safety, even _concern_? Perhaps _complacency?_ Ridiculous. Rafa had a game to play—he had to take the streak as far as it would go. He had to prove to Roger that it was like what Uncle Toni said: _”Playing Rome? Seriously? Stupid!”_

But when Rafa was on that plane to Rome the following morning, the press conference questions still bounced in his head: 

“How do you think you can handle Rome, now?”

“Have you thought about meeting Roger in the finals?”

“Do you think you can manage Thiem in the quarterfinals?”

As usual, it was like that winning streak had never existed—the last week of record-breaking obliterated to dust. 

_Seriously? Stupid!_

***

Mary handled all these things in stride, of course. Rafa always appreciated when she went to his tournaments, but mostly, he appreciated when she was there on the rides home from them. Especially the disappointing ones, where they had an early flight to the next city; where Mary would point out the window and say, _”How can you be sad with a view like that?!”_ And it wouldn’t just be Rome, but anywhere—the plains in the middle of North America, the wide ocean that Rafa had seen thousands of time from home. A mountain range like so many others; tall buildings like so many others.

Well—Rome had a lot of those things too, but it was still beautiful. And Mary, with her sense of adventure, always seemed to help Rafa reset with her enthusiasm. Because, yes—they had seen the Roman Coliseum a million times, but had they seen it _this_ year? _This_ week? From _this_ angle? 

Mary had a million pictures of Rome, but she still pulled out her phone, anyway. Rafa couldn’t help but smile at that, especially when Mary was sending so many of the pictures back to Isobel, still in America. 

_”Why don’t you just invite her?”_ Rafa finally asked when they stopped for lunch. He had decided on what he wanted, then put the menu down to see Mary giggling at some text.

She raised her brows at him, as if the suggestion were ludicrous. But Mary seemed to give it some thought, taking a long moment to dim her phone screen and set it aside. _”I don’t know—I doubt she wants to come.”_

Rafa rolled his eyes. He didn’t know what the hesitation was about, but he knew that most people didn’t turn down a free trip to Rome. Especially if that person could meet up with someone they’d been enthusiastically texting for the last few days; like a bottle uncorked and overflowing. 

_”Why? She’s not done with her business?”_ Rafa asked; guessing that the end of Isobel’s radio silence meant the opposite. When Mary didn’t answer him, he made a quick grab for her cellphone.

Arms were outstretched and trying to block him, but Rafa was too quick and much taller. It probably looked absurd in such a fancy restaurant, especially since they were both giggling and speaking at the same time.

_”Don’t—”_

_”What the hell is this code?”_

_”Thief!”_

_”Not your birth—ah!”_ She was tickling him, her small fingers behind his knees and making him bend over. He could’ve lost this battle to the giggles, except Isobel chose that moment to text back. 

Rafa jogged out of Mary’s grasp, showing the texting box from a distance. Mary huffed at him, but sat back down at the table. 

He was grinning, feeling gleeful with victory and devilish plans. Especially since Isobel had texted back: _You’re such a tease! I wish I was in Rome with you._

_Then come!_ Rafa quickly started, then added: _This is Rafa. I haven’t seen you in a while. Mary and I would love to see you in Rome._

He bit his thumb for a moment, sitting back down at the table to think, and then deleted the last sentence to say: _I’m busy training, but if you could keep Mary company, I would love to bring you to Rome. Will you come?_ He then hit send before he could be thwarted, then dropped the phone to the table. 

He was still grinning, and Mary still looked a little murderous—but then her lips upturned, amused, not even bothering to look at the text he sent. 

_”I like seeing you smile,”_ Mary said softly, unexpectedly. When Rafa could only blink at her, a little disarmed, she added, _”You’ve had the blues the last few months—you know? A lot of difficult stuff.”_

Rafa didn’t want to admit that she was right. But then, he could only guess the type of company he’d been—grumpy, withdrawn. Probably terrible. Perhaps _still_ terrible. And yet, here she was—his Mary, cheerful and forgiving, smiling back at him. 

How did he get so lucky? She would always be family to him, no matter what happened. 

Rafa looked away, swallowing the lump in his throat. He pointed to Mary’s cellphone. _”She makes the best coffee.”_

Mary only nodded, seeming to acknowledge the unspoken: that he’d always be family to her, too.

***

The golf courses in Rome were not as famed as other things, but Rafa still found himself on one, anyway. One benefit to being early to a tournament, he supposed, with the bonus of having moments of meditation, focus, and drive. Hitting around 90 also gave him some much-needed confidence—not a professional score, but one of the best from him, anyway.

He just felt _good._ Rafa took it as a sign that, unlike months earlier when he kept withdrawing and his mood worsened, this time he felt able to bounce back. Even though he kept thinking of Roger—kept thinking of the potential final, the potential confrontations, the potential battle—he felt some sense of peace. 

Well, except when Mary texted him a picture of Roger in a sleeveless Nike tee—the same one Rafa owned, in fact. That didn’t happen too often; Rafa owning the same sponsored t-shirt as someone else, especially Roger. They had their own designs, and Roger usually didn’t go sleeveless. And in the same black color, besides—Rafa wasn’t sure how he felt about it. 

But Mary had teased him mercilessly— _”So nice of you to lend that to Rogelio!”_ —and Rafa had rolled his eyes. He certainly couldn’t wait for Isobel to touchdown in Rome, as Mary was bouncing all over the place with excitement. He loved her, but right now she was borderline-insufferable. Cute, but _insane._

_Can I throw her in a padded ball pit in Rome?_ Isobel had written before her flight; included in an email with her thanks and flight details. Rafa had smirked at that, and written back, _Please do._

_I know I keep saying this, but really, thank you. I didn’t know when we’d meet again in Manacor and there’s…. something I really want to tell her. I didn’t want to wait anymore._

As Rafa entered the clubhouse, the phrase still rolled around in his head: _I didn’t want to wait anymore._ He wasn’t sure what that meant. As much as Mary’s paranoia about Isobel in America had seemed ridiculous, a part of him feared that something _had_ happened. What if she were reuniting with her ex-husband? Or she was pregnant? Or there was someone _else_? 

He would hate to see Mary’s excitement plummet at that type of news. But, well—he hadn’t asked Isobel what she meant. What would he do with that information, anyway? They would see her soon enough. 

Rafa was ordering a bottle of water at the bar, when a voice called out behind him, “Rafa?” 

It was unmistakable, despite not being best friends with Mirka Federer. Before he was able to turn around, she was leaning against the wooden bar, smiling up at him. 

“Long time no see,” she said. Her brown hair was pulled to the side and on her shoulder, intentionally casual like her golfing clothes—khakis, with pastel pink shell and cardigan.

When had Mirka taken up golfing? It was a good question to ask, but Mirka was already answering him. 

“Mini golf,” she said. “Roger’s out back with the girls. Probably wouldn’t surprise you that they are kicking his ass.” She was wickedly grinning as she said it, and Rafa couldn’t help but grin back. 

The truth was, he couldn’t help but like Mirka. She was fiercely loyal, beautiful, and smart. As much as Rafa had always dreamed of being with Roger, he had to admit that Mirka was a good fit for him—she was able to manage and calm Roger when no one else could. She was unapologetic and a strong presence, when so many tennis wives were passive on the sidelines. 

And she had always been kind to Rafa, for reasons that Rafa never understood—not that Mirka knew his feelings for her husband. But there were times she went out of her way, like now, to speak with him.

“You've been looking good—congratulations on Monte Carlo and Barcelona,” she said, now holding her own bottle of water. “And the set streak was impressive.”

“Thank you.” Rafa wanted to say something similar, but was at a loss—Roger had not played in a while, and truthfully, Rafa was not happy to see him in Rome. 

“Can’t say I expected to be here this year,” Mirka went on, toying with the bottle’s label. “But, well… I guess Roger has some unfinished business in Rome.”

She was looking at the clubhouse entrance as though Roger would walk through at any moment, but the doorway remained open and empty. Rafa wasn’t sure what he would do if Roger came in, anyway—and he was still at a loss for words, besides. 

What, he would apologize for throwing his phone? No, not at all. And he wouldn’t ask what Mirka meant by her statement, since Rafa’s team had been speculating for the last few days, anyway. 

Rafa had his theories—”unfinished business” sounding like retirement on the horizon—but he kept silent. He doubted that Roger would play if he were injured or not feeling well; and if those things were true, then retirement was probably not on the table. 

“He misses you,” Mirka said quietly, watching Rafa’s face. 

Rafa slouched against the bar, looking down at his water bottle. He didn’t need to hear such a thing—what, was Mirka trying to sabotage him, too? Make him all soft so that the record could be 5-0 this year? Ridiculous. He didn’t need such mind games. 

But before he could answer, a whir of bodies rushed towards him; knocking him against the bar top as they clung to his legs.

“UNCLE RAFA!” Myla or Charlene said, he wasn’t sure. They were like rabid chipmunks clinging to tree trunks, and Rafa couldn’t help but laugh as he steadied himself. 

There was something about their eyes—the shape of the nose, the mouth. Rafa patted their heads and tried hard not to think about it. 

“We beat Daddy! We beat Daddy!” they chanted, like the little heathens they were, and Rafa couldn’t help but be delighted. There was a warmth in his chest whenever he saw the girls—and little Leo and Lenny, too—that he couldn’t suppress. 

It also drudged up yearnings, if Rafa weren’t careful. Again, he wouldn’t think hard on whether it was these specific children or children in general that gave him trouble. 

“Thoroughly and expertly,” a warm voice came from the doorway, and the girls giggled in response.

Rafa didn’t want to look up, but of course he did—he couldn’t help himself, couldn't stop himself. And his eyes locked on the spark within the amber, the good humor within Roger’s gaze as his stared back. Roger’s eyes seemed to search him—seemed to inventory him, needing to take in their fill.

Rafa bit his cheek—what was he _thinking_? Roger was just looking at him, like anyone else. Yet they continued to do so, not speaking—Rafa noticing the dark stubble on Roger’s jawline and throat, meeting the flush creeping up his neck. 

“Why don’t you two catch up?” Mirka said loudly, standing to block the connection between them. She wore a smirk as she said, “You two have a lot to talk about, I’m sure.” 

But Rafa felt the shake of his head before he registered it—he grabbed his water bottle and patted the kids away before his words caught up with him. 

“I’m, um—uh,” Rafa said, looking for a different exit. The last thing he wanted to do was _talk_ —and with Roger, no less!—and finally he found the word he needed, “Practice!” before he was able to wave and turn away, with the kids protesting behind him. 

Rafa was in his car, hands on the steering wheel, before he realized that he was shaking—breathing hard, with his heart beating fast. _Ridiculous._ Ridiculous! 

He smacked the wheel—then swore for having done so; then swore again for swearing in the first place. Things felt like they were spiraling out of control when Rafa could usually contain these things that he felt. He was the master of calm, wasn’t he? Couldn’t he usually keep a lid on these feelings? 

But he had run away from Roger—for no reason! _No reason._ It was maddening. And if they met in the final, no doubt Roger would wear a smirk, saying, _Going to run away now, Raf?_

He would not. On the tennis court, Rafa would not be scared of anything. As he drove and felt his breath steady, he tried not to think of the word “scared”—he hadn’t been scared in the clubhouse, right? It had just been awkward. Roger was still his rival, and although they were usually on good terms, Rafa was still pissed at him about entering Rome.

_Hey, did you just run away from Roger?_ Mary texted as Rafa handed his keys to a valet. _I hear he’s starting that beard again, but it’s not THAT scary._

Rafa groaned. How Mary knew what _just_ happened was beyond him. But Isobel would be landing in a few hours, and as far as he was concerned, she could not get here soon enough.

***

There was a strange, foreboding feeling in his gut. But whether he was dreaming or experiencing reality, Rafa had a hard time saying. The clay court was in front of him—a burnt red that stained his hands and white shorts—but the sky was the inky blue of nighttime, and for some reason he was in Australia, alone, with no one in attendance at Rod Laver Arena.

He was hitting balls into nowhere, it felt like, and the frustration was overwhelming. He was in the quarterfinals, and he’d had a momentary scare of retiring against Marin—and where was Marin?—but it felt like it made no difference. He was still failing. Rafa couldn’t see the scoreboard, but he knew he was down and would have to claw his way back out. 

Nothing was impossible. It wasn’t the final set—or was it the final set?—but he could come back from this. Rafa could come back from anything. He remembered getting donuted on his 1000th career match, yet still winning it all. There was a similar despair in the air, but Rafa was not going to swallow it—it could hang like a dense fog, but he would see his way through. That’s what he always did, didn’t he? He would never give up. 

Somehow the next ball he hit blew Marin’s head wide open—literally, spectacularly—and Rafa barely paused to catch his breath. _”Poor Marin,”_ Rafa heard himself say with a sigh, _”that will need stitches.”_ But he was victorious, no matter the cost. He walked to the ball boy for three new tennis balls, knowing now that he was serving against Kyle Edmund. He knew that if he won this point, he would finally be in the finals and could win Australia— _his_ 17, _his_ Australia. 

Rafa looked at the stands, seeing what would be his box, but it was completely empty. No Mary, even, with her complete faith in him—no Carlos Moya, no Uncle Toni. Somehow, it didn't bother him. Wasn’t he, in some way, always by himself? Whatever Rafa did, it would be entirely up to him. 

So he scored four aces in a row—-the speed of them a mind-boggling number he couldn’t see—and now there was a calm before the storm, with Edmund vanquished and the final game before him. It was still dark on the other side of the court, as if literal storm clouds were approaching on the horizon. 

“ _Pssst_ ,” Rafa heard behind him. He tried to ignore it, but then the voice whispered, “Rafa!,” and he had to turn around. 

It was Roger, dressed in the Laver Cup blue and white, with his elbow up to block the view of his mouth.

“Serve to the forehand,” Roger whispered, then walked in front of him and ducked low. 

Rafa could only stare at his back—that was _terrible_ advice. That would probably lead to a long rally of shots where Roger could hit like a graceful ballerina, ultimately winning the point. Rafa shook his head—didn’t Roger know _Roger’s_ best points? 

Rafa frowned at that, then bounced the ball. 

“Time,” a voice called out—was it Mo Lahyani? Maybe. But usually he was generous with such things. Usually he understood Rafa and his need to prepare himself. 

“Time violation. _Loooove_ -15,” he called out, and Rafa felt the aggravation growing. 

_Fine._ He lifted his arm and delivered the shot quickly. It hit the far right corner, but it should still be in—

“Out,” the voice called. 

“What?” Rafa said under his breath, then raised his hand for a challenge. 

“I don’t think so,” Lahyani answered cheerfully. 

Rafa could only stare in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Roger wanted it out, so I called it out,” Lahyani said with his usual calm smile. “ _Loooove_ -30.”

Rafa shook his head. “When did _that_ happen?” But Lahyani was close to warning for time again, so Rafa clenched his teeth and got down to business. 

It _was_ just business, wasn’t it? But as he missed a lightning-fast return, he felt tears in the corners of his eyes. How could he let this happen—how could he let this happen _again_? 

“You need to trust me on that side of the court,” Roger hissed, backing up for his turn to serve. “I’m going to do the forehand.” 

Rafa huffed a breath of disbelief. “You’re just serving to Roger—” and then his mind clicked on, _Roger to Roger?_ , and he commented, “You just want to win.”

Roger shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. What would _you_ do, Raf?”

Rafa thought on that as he ducked—what _would_ he do? He hated to lose. If he could guarantee his own success on return serve—

Much to Rafa’s surprise, the ball returned for a perfect forehand trajectory. It hit the far right pocket, just on the line. 

There was a roar from the crowd, and when Rafa raised his head to look around, suddenly everyone was there—the spectators, the coaches. When he looked towards his box there was Mary and Isobel, on the edge of their seats—but so was Mirka, her hands clasped on a ledge. 

Rafa felt breathless, but he had to serve out the game. He could taste victory like blood in his mouth, metallic and pervasive. 

“I always wanted this for you,” Roger said from behind him, before coming forward into view. “I wanted you here, so much. I wanted to play you fair and square.” 

Rafa swallowed, but then shook his head as doubt crept in. “No—you were happy I was out. Made it easy for you.” 

Roger marched and crowded into his space, and Rafa blinked with surprise as Roger glared at him. 

“Do you _really_ think that? That I would ever be glad you were injured?” Roger clenched his jaw and growled, “It broke my fucking _heart_.” 

Rafa wanted to laugh at the idea— _really_? Would Roger ever truly care so much? Especially about his rival? But a part of Rafa couldn’t shake the idea—couldn’t forget the anger on Roger’s face. As he watched Roger duck low in front of him, there was an overwhelming sadness that flooded his chest. Rafa looked up at the crowd, then surprised himself by whispering, “I was heartbroken, too.” 

But Rafa swallowed it, like he always did; no matter how difficult. He served quickly and closed out the match, delivering a devastating ace. The navy blue of night turned into a vibrant gold—the world lit up, the crowd roared, and confetti streamed down on both of their heads. 

Roger was smiling at him, with strips of paper tangling in his hair. “This is what I always want, Rafa. No matter how it ends.”

The sight took Rafa’s breath away. He wanted to reach out and grab him—wanted to embrace him, like so many times before. But did Rafa feel the same way? _No_ —he couldn’t, could he? This victory was always meant to be his. He always came to win; it didn’t matter against whom. 

But as Rafa lifted the trophy, it felt so light, so meaningless. He searched for Roger’s face in the crowd, but the man had disappeared—it seemed he had already slipped away from Rod Laver Arena, like a ghost.

***

Rafa had fitful dreams all week until finally it was time for the semis; where it became a fact that Roger was his opponent in the final, not just a theory or scenario. Rafa had tried not to watch, but he heard enough from journalists and even his own team to know that Roger did better than expected. Even against Thiem, and then Zverev, who were both Rafa’s biggest opponents on clay, minus Novak when he was in his best form. Roger had a few long battles, but always seemed to make it work—coming from behind, not even breaking a sweat when a tie-break happened.

It calmed Rafa, somehow, to have answers. Roger was not a specter of the unknown, but someone he had studied long ago and still found to be lacking on a clay court. Carlos Moya, and even Uncle Toni, had reassured Rafa that he had the answers to Roger’s game. Rafa knew that; understood it; remembered it, even. 

Rafa took the dice in his hands, rolled a double, and the whole table groaned. 

_”What? Why does he get to move 14 spaces?”_ Isobel asked as Carlos Moya put his head in his hands. Moya had two of his pawns on home base, while everyone else had all of their pieces around the Parchís board. 

_”Because he’s a lucky asshole,”_ Moya muttered while Rafa moved his red pieces and picked off one of Mary’s yellow pawns. 

_”You can say that again,”_ Mary agreed with a sigh. She didn’t really like this game to begin with, but Isobel had been curious and wanted to try a round—much to Rafa’s delight, as she had no idea how he liked to play the game. 

When he rolled again, it was no doubles, and half the table threw up their hands. It allowed Rafa to take his last red pawn to the center, making him victorious. 

_”Just letting you win, obviously,”_ Moya said with a grin.

_”Speak for yourself,”_ Mary said, causing Isobel to giggle. 

_”Poor sports.”_ Rafa wiped the board clean, setting up the pawns for a new game, although he probably wouldn’t have any takers. _”I can’t help it that I’m that good.”_

_”So modest,”_ Mary said.

_”Always,”_ Rafa said, then grinned. He watched as Mary leaned back in her chair, seeming resigned to another round. She was close to Isobel, who had her chin in her hands as she watched the proceedings, also seeming resigned to whatever happened. 

Rafa liked the view. Isobel had arrived a few days ago and the women had been inseparable. Mary seemed even more cheerful, and Isobel also seemed in a good mood. 

_I didn’t want to wait, anymore._ Had Isobel already divulged her secret? Rafa had been prepared for the worst to happen. But despite what Isobel had told him, perhaps she had truly waited. He had watched her the last few days, ruling out some of the obvious—there was no ring on her finger, no constant checking of her text messages to signal another beau. And despite Rafa not being an expert in these things, he ruled out pregnancy when Isobel drank a few beers. 

It only left him with one theory: perhaps she was moving back to America? Selling the cafe? Which would make him sad, but at least Mary and Isobel could remain long-distance friends. 

_”My feet are going numb,”_ Mary suddenly said and stood up from the table. She yawned, then announced, _”I think I’ll go for a walk.”_ As she pushed in her chair, she looked over at Isobel, who was already standing and doing the same thing. 

_”Um, I’ll go with you—I could use the fresh air.”_

Rafa watched as they both walked out the door to the balcony. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as their dark forms disappeared into the night. 

Of course—Isobel _would_ wait for the last night. That way if there were any hard feelings, then Isobel would be leaving shortly, anyhow. It was probably the kindest and smartest thing to do. 

_”You’ll need more beer to bribe Maymo and Toni,”_ Moya said, his voice thick from having a few of his own. 

But Rafa shook his head. _”I’m—I’m going for a walk, too.”_

He pushed in his chair quickly, thinking that he would need to run to catch up. But who knew where they went? There were so many streets near their rented condo—so many quiet corners for a private conversation, perhaps a private heartache. 

It was a beautiful city to cry in, that was for sure. But Rafa hoped he would find Mary—wouldn’t she do the same for him? When Mary cried, it was usually so quiet, muffled, and internalized. Rafa would have to reel the feelings out, throwing his line with a word or a hug and hoping to catch a bite. Rafa knew he was the same way, sometimes—but they understood each other, trusted each other. 

Hopefully she would trust him now. Although he made it to the end of his balcony steps and looked around, feeling lost. 

What was it that Roger told him once? They had been walking streets like these, with stone underfoot, searching for a quiet moment away from some party. 

“Let’s take the path of least resistance,” he had said, with a tight smile on his face. He had not been doing well, then—it must have been the start of his back problems, the tenseness of his frame giving him away. His girls were much younger, so Rafa and Roger had also been younger; but they both had felt weary with the world on their shoulders. 

Responsibilities. Once you went pro, they seemed to grow into mountains that became harder and harder to climb with each passing year. And while they would usually handle them with their best smile—they were both lucky, weren’t they, to do what they do?—Rafa could see that Roger had a hard time smiling through it; getting through what needed to be done. 

“I don’t want to retire,” Roger had said quietly, his face hard to read in the navy blanket of nighttime. “But it’s suffocating.” 

Rafa had wondered then what he had done to deserve such confidence. But he had only nodded, saying, “Sometimes it is hard to breathe, no? Too much.” 

“And you still have many years ahead.” 

They had stopped at a fountain, dry from the winter, but Roger had stared as though the water was still flowing. 

“You too—many years,” Rafa had said near him. Because, really? They had not been that old. And at that time, he could not imagine tennis without Roger; a part of him still hoping, still wondering. Still admiring from afar all the things Roger seemed to possess without trying—the grace, the form, the ability—even while in pain. 

Roger had laughed, hollow and dry, then had looked at him. “I don’t think so.”

“Yes, Rogi.” 

What was it that stood out so much about that moment? Maybe it was the look of a grieving man, when Rafa usually saw Roger as the stable and light-hearted one. Goofy, but smart and optimistic. Kind to others, but apparently not kind with himself. 

Roger had looked down, his hands deep in his pockets. “How do you know this?” 

Rafa hadn’t, not really, but it wasn’t something that could be thought through. It had just been spontaneously known to him; as sure as the Roland Garros tournaments each year, the moon following the sun in the night sky—or perhaps that the next breath would come, without thinking. 

“I just feel, Rogi. I just feel it is so.”

Rafa looked at a small pathway to his left, and hustled through it—it went through some gardens, picturesque and their own form of art. The new blooms and their fragrance could make Rafa dream, but he wouldn’t dare. Instead he tried to make out forms in the distance, to see if they were familiar—Isobel had worn a yellow dress, with Mary in jeans and a gray t-shirt. 

“You promise, Raf?” Roger had asked back then, but he had smiled—genuine, this time. 

“What am I agreeing to?” Rafa had asked, although in that moment, Roger could have made him promise anything.

“The years—the both of us, many years ahead.” 

That had been easy. Rafa could remember his smile, the way it had felt, like he had promised Roger the moon and felt he could pluck it from the sky.

It made Rafa’s heart ache, thinking on it now—how many of those years were left? Probably none. But back then, it had felt like a lifetime. 

_”Stay with me,”_ someone whispered, and Rafa turned his head to follow the sound. It seemed to bounce off the stone walls, and he was careful to walk quietly, to listen closely. 

_”Why should I?”_ someone answered—but it wasn’t angry, wasn’t sad. The more that Rafa thought on it, the more it sounded that Mary was curious and wondering.

_”Because…”_ Isobel seemed to struggle, before admitting in English, “Because I need you.” 

Rafa’s heart stilled as if it were him receiving that confession, or making the confession—imagining either stung too much, like a knife across his skin, sliced with Roger’s own hands. Instead Rafa held his breath for several long moments, hoping for more words to follow, but all he heard was silence. 

He tried to lean quietly, to peer around the corner without making a sound—but what did it matter? They wouldn’t have heard him, anyway. Rafa leaned on the corner of the stonework and watched as both women pressed together, their mouths seared by a fierce kiss—Mary’s hands tangled in Isobel’s long, blonde hair while Isobel gripped her so tightly, as if Mary would disappear the moment she let go. 

And Rafa still couldn’t breathe; his breaths shallow and tight within his chest. Was he upset? Disappointed? _Angry?_ No—it took a moment, but it felt like that disbelief after the final point, after the victory rang in his ears. A part of him always questioned it, then fell so fast into the reality of it—only to pause for a final moment of doubt and mocking: _You? Rafa? Really?_ But it would be before his eyes, undeniable. 

Rafa turned around, a small smile on his lips as he made his way back to the condo. Why hadn't he thought of _that_? Why did he think that was so impossible, that it never occurred to him that a happy ending could ever exist? He had seen their chemistry over the years; how perfect and in sync they were together; the way they made each other happy. 

Rafa paused on the stairs to the condo, still not having an answer. But whatever Mary wanted to do—an official and public “breakup,” perhaps—it was up to her. Mary, and now Isobel, would always be worth the hassle.

***

A part of Rafa was amazed at how he had avoided Roger the whole week. Usually they ran into each other on the practice courts, in the hallways, or even at restaurants—pulled together as if they were attached by invisible string—but this week was absent, quiet, lackluster. By the second day, Rafa had stopped watching for Roger around every corner, going within himself to practice and prepare for his matches. It was a meditative space; peaceful.

But seeing Roger that Sunday during warm-ups was unexpectedly rattling. And for what reason? They had politely said hello to each other; Roger smiling as always, but keeping a respectful distance. Rafa had tried to keep his head down and prepare himself. He _was_ dominant on clay, no question about it—but he couldn’t help but watch Roger as he moved through the paces, looking strong, confident, and sure of himself. 

He was in a bright red color for Nike, with black shorts and a black headband. They made him look young and healthy—he seemed lit up like the sun, or the warmest of fires, bringing vibrancy to the court against Rafa’s ocean blues. It was unnerving—as if Rafa should be fearful of _him_ , wary of _him_. And despite his inner mantras… maybe he was. Maybe the 4-0 of last year was still emblazoned in his mind, no matter the odds of previous clay court games and head-to-head records. Roger was laughing—Rafa could hear it on his side of the practice court—and it pricked at his nerves. 

Rome was _his_. Rafa gritted his teeth, trying to remember that. His ocean waves could douse that blazing fire any day of the week. 

When they got on the golf cart together, taking them to their match, Rafa tried once again to focus inward. Sometimes his mind was as sharp as a diamond and no one could break through his concentration. At other times, like now, Rafa could be distracted—the usual din of the courts and arenas, but now also the humming of the man next to him, soft and low. 

His mind followed along—envisioning his movements and serves with the notes—until Rafa recognized the chorus: _Whatever will be, will be._

“Please stop,” Rafa muttered with his eyes closed. And much to his surprise, Roger did. Those minutes of silence stretched out and felt like hours, until Rafa opened his eyes and peered to the side. 

Roger was watching him, and when they met eyes, Roger gave a small smile of apology. 

Rafa was irritated at himself for snapping—but the golf cart stopped, and Rafa had no intention of saying sorry, anyway. Roger walked ahead of him, greeting the staff with his usual friendliness, smiles, and laughter. Rafa tried to nod at those he passed, but he was not in the mood. 

As much as Rafa wanted to blame Roger for his attitude, he realized it was truly all _him_ — _he_ was getting into his own head, _he_ was allowing himself to react without thinking. He wanted someone to smack his hand—or really, have Uncle Toni smack the side of his head—but he was alone, now. He had to focus. 

It then occurred to him, for the hundredth time, that perhaps this was a mind game—but Rafa quickly shushed that thought. It was beneath him, and he knew Roger better than that. Didn’t he? But as they walked onto court surrounded by cheers, Rafa couldn’t help but keep peering at Roger, anyway; the man was as cool as a cucumber as he arranged his equipment, as if his victory was already settled. 

_Ridiculous._ But if Rafa didn’t get his head on straight, perhaps it would be the truth. 

The proceedings before the match went quickly, and Rafa even won the coin toss. Mo Lahyani, their judge, explained the rules in his concise and jovial manner. Rafa chose to receive first; he would need a leg up, somehow. Roger glanced at him as if to say, _Don’t count on it_ —and when Rafa was down a break point before he could even blink, the fear crept in that perhaps Roger was right. 

It was Rafa’s fault. He knew this; he understood this. But the nightmare started to unfold before his eyes. How was Roger getting shots past him like that? Why couldn’t he move fast enough? And why the hell did he double-fault several times when the score was 4-0, as if those numbers just _had_ to haunt him? 

When Roger took the first set—a breadstick, not a bagel, at least—Rafa had never felt more like throwing his racquet in his entire life. But he would rather scratch his eyes out before doing so; the results would probably be the same, anyway. 

_No._ He wouldn’t think like that. Rafa peered over at Roger again, and of course the man wasn’t even breaking a sweat. It had always pissed Rafa off that Roger seemed to keep his cool, while Rafa could literally replenish the world’s oceans from his matches. It was also entirely unfair how good Roger looked, hair tossed attractively and brows unwrinkled, while Rafa’s hair thinned and frizzed and was out of control. Rafa changed his headband, trying to also change his mood. It wasn’t working. He looked up at his box, scanning the faces of those he trusted—Uncle Toni was predictably crossing his arms, while Moya looked concerned. Even Mary looked worried, although she tried a weak smile. 

How could he do this? How could Rafa do this to people he loved and respected? 

“Time,” Lahyani called out.

Roger waited for Rafa to pass him, and—what was it? The look on his face? Rafa carried the image with him as he held out his hand for three tennis balls, then bounced one of them absently and tucked hair behind his ears—

Worry. _Really?_ But that’s what it was. Unmistakably, transparently—unexpected and like a sock to the gut. Rafa grabbed the ball out of the air and stood for a moment, just staring across the net—meeting Roger’s eyes without thinking, without intending to. 

“Warning, Nadal,” a voice called out, but Rafa was hardly listening. Roger had straightened and was staring back at him. That look was still there, plain on his face—almost a mirror of Mary’s, who also hated to see him self-destruct.

_Also._ It occurred to Rafa how awful he’d been, thinking that Roger would ever be malicious, or would ever wish to take advantage of him. Why did he ever think that? Especially now, when Roger had supposedly missed him— 

Rafa caught the eye of Lahyani, who seemed to be speaking to him—but Rafa only nodded, then bounced the ball and served quickly. It was not perfect, but Roger was able to return it and Rafa was able to hit it into the far right pocket —a shot just on the line that would normally have Rafa pumping his fist. Instead he caught Roger’s eyes again and tried to find meaning there. 

Roger actually looked _relieved_. And when Roger nodded at him, Rafa got the impression that Roger wanted this to be a fair fight—wanted Rafa to play his best—

_He missed you,_ Rafa remembered again. He scored an ace, and Rafa could feel something in the air—the crowd could tell the mood had shifted, that Rafa had shifted. 

Roger hunkered down and far back, and it was the most serious look of the match. Roger wanted to play _him_ —wanted to play Rafa in his glory, in his element. And if Rafa were honest with himself, this is how he had always wanted to play Roger, too—not just on his best surface, but during the best of _everything_. He wanted to play against Roger at Wimbledon not because he knew he could win, but because nothing riled him up more— _this_ losing streak pissed him off the most because _these_ were the matches he cared about most. He could lie to himself, but if Roger left the game, nothing would ever be as exciting to Rafa again. Not the “Prince of Clay,” not the Next Gen, not even the other members of the Old Gen— _Roger_. It would always just be Roger. 

Maybe that’s what Roger meant by “missing” him—perhaps it would always just be Rafa to him, too. 

When Rafa took the first point, then broke Roger quickly afterwards, they both knew the truth: Roger’s winning streak was over.

***

As always, Roger was gracious and charming in his runner-up speech. After all, as he said, “I’ve had a lot of practice at these things.” His smile was warm, genuine—Rafa felt himself grin at Roger’s joke, and the many jokes afterwards.

“I have practice too, after last year,” Rafa joked back, and Roger’s giggle was infectious. They couldn’t stop smiling as they stood together to take pictures; their hands lingering on each other’s backs and shoulders. 

When then wished each other goodbye, Roger said, “See you later,” with a wink. _A wink_. It likely meant nothing, but it lit Rafa up from the inside as he bit his trophy. 

He would likely chastise himself later, but he felt too good. It was no longer 4-0 but 4-1—or rather, 0-1 in the year 2018. He popped champagne and got a smile from Uncle Toni, which always felt like a trophy in itself. 

_Congratulations._ So many congratulations. He soaked them in like a dry sponge, relishing them more than he would care to admit, starved for them. His face hurt from a wide grin, but he couldn’t help it—he gave it to everyone as he thanked them and shook their hands. He felt so out of practice, despite winning before Rome—but this was different. _This_ was against someone different. He felt like he had won the world. _Finally_. 

When he was younger, he might've partied late into the night to celebrate—screamed and yelled until his throat hurt, danced until he felt exhausted. But the truth was, at 31, Rafa was already exhausted from the day. When had _that_ started happening? It was before midnight and he was lying in bed in his rented condo, drinking water and perusing Netflix. He felt like a boring old man—but then, he was a boring old man who had just won Rome, _so_. 

Rafa had settled on an episode of “Planet Earth” when there was a knock on his bedroom door. Probably Mary delivering his snacks before bed. Rafa was looking forward to answering the door with a raised eyebrow— _So early? Planning on catching up on some beauty rest?_ She had still not told him about Isobel, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to needle her. _The beds are really comfy here, don’t you think? Big, too._

Rafa had a joke on his tongue when he opened the door—only to see Roger smiling at him, holding up a greasy bag of fries and a large soda with a straw. 

“A little birdie told me you like these after final matches,” Roger said, then ushered himself inside. Rafa was too stunned to protest—not that he probably would’ve protested—but only watched as Roger settled the bag on the bed, then sat on the left side. He took a sip of the soda and looked at the large flatscreen. “The girls really like this show. It’s good.”

Rafa had already seen it—he had planned to fall asleep to it, actually. But he sat on the right side of the bed, taking a few fries from the to-go bag.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Roger said as he handed Rafa the soda. 

Rafa took a sip. “You already say that.”

“I know. But I meant it.” 

They sat in silence as David Attenborough talked about the oceans—the blues so deep and dark, the creatures at hidden depths. Rafa took another sip of Diet Coke, then passed it to Roger, who made the straw _kuh_ as he drank. 

“I’m not going to the French Open, you know,” Roger said. 

Rafa watched him as he munched on a few fries, hoping Roger would continue. But he didn’t. He simply stretched out his legs, wiping his hands on his blue jeans, and leaned against the headboard. He was wearing a familiar navy sweatshirt, with the cuffs rolled up, that was starting to fray at the neckline. As always, Rafa noticed that the combo looked extremely good on him; was just as relaxed and casual as Roger was, sitting on Rafa’s bed. 

_Rafa’s_ bed. Had Roger come here—barged in, really—just to tell him about FO? Was it a white flag of surrender, or had Roger never intended to go that far, even if he had won today? 

“You should go,” Rafa said. “It make no sense to be here if you don’t go.”

“To be in Rome?” Roger shook his head. “I have a lot of reasons to be in Rome.”

“Tennis, yes? You did good, though. You got far.” Rafa could admit that, now—there was an emptiness where the bitterness used to be, and Rafa wanted to move in kindness; crowd out any future hard feelings before they ever started and took root. 

Roger laughed. “I didn’t beat you—and trust me, Raf, I _always_ want to beat you.” 

Rafa grinned. “I know.” 

“But, I—I also—well, there’s other stuff.”

Rafa nodded. They both always promoted stuff when they landed in big cities, and no doubt Roger had been roped into something—maybe something for Barilla, actually, now that Rafa thought about it. It would make sense. 

“Another pasta commercial?”

Roger looked confused. “What?” Then after a moment, he burst out laughing. “Oh God— _no_ , not at all. Don’t tell me you watched that one, though?” 

Rafa shrugged. Maybe he had. A few times. “Last month I make a video for Nintendo—Mario Tennis. We can both be embarrassed, no?” 

Roger turned towards him, looking excited. “Nintendo? _Really?_ Do you win against Mario?” When Rafa nodded, Roger wore a devilish grin. “I hope someone makes gifs of it, then I can send them to Sascha and Dom every time they play you.”

“ _No!_ Don’t!” But Rafa was laughing, too—Roger’s giggles were infectious and evil, fizzier than the soda they were both drinking. It went to Rafa’s head like the champagne he popped earlier, heady and strong, relaxing him further. It had been a while since they'd laughed like that—maybe since Laver Cup, if Rafa were honest. He remembered throwing Roger a hackey sack in the workout room and Roger fumbling to catch it—like the man didn’t catch and hit small balls for a living, good grief. Rafa had laughed so hard he almost cried. 

And _this_ is what he had missed the most, Rafa realized. They used to do this all the time, this fooling around and joking. When had they stopped? Probably when Rafa had needed to control himself—when Rafa imagined things that could never be. He had needed to distance himself for both their sakes. Right? That had been the right thing to do. 

But now they were leaning so close to each other, shoulder to shoulder against the headboard, and Rafa was all too aware of their proximity. Rafa hiccuped a breath from laughing so much, and Roger was watching him, an amused smile splayed on his face. He looked happy, and Rafa felt a thrill from it—maybe he had made Roger as happy as Roger made him, somehow. 

Rafa closed his eyes and rested his head against the headboard. That was dangerous thinking.

“But, yeah—not the only reason I’m in Rome, Rafa.”

They were still talking about this? What difference did it make? So Roger had promoted something else. Rafa opened his eyes, hoping he looked as indifferent as he felt, but he saw that Roger’s gaze was at his mouth—traveling to his eyes, his hair, then back down to his lips. 

_Definitely_ dangerous. It gave Rafa so many ideas, and he felt his heart racing. How many times had he dreamed something like this? It would be so easy to reach for him, to pull him forward. It was the same song as so many other times, when Rafa had almost made a rash decision—to throw their friendship to the winds, despite Roger being married and having children. Despite Roger probably not intending such a thing, despite Roger likely hating whatever happened—probably hating _him_ —

Rafa looked away, and he was surprised to feel a hand on his chin. 

“Don’t—”

It was so fluid, the way that Rafa had looked back and Roger had leaned forward, both hands cradling his face as Roger brought their lips together. It was so insistent, as if Roger needed to pin him down. And maybe so, as Rafa almost pulled away—this isn’t what Roger had _really_ intended, right?But then Roger’s hand slipped to the back of his neck and held him, making Rafa realize that, yes—Roger wanted this badly, maybe as badly as Rafa did himself. 

Rafa closed his eyes, relaxing into the pressure on his mouth. Roger’s lips were so soft, and Rafa’s felt so dry and chapped—he could only imagine how unsexy _that_ was—until Roger’s tongue curled into his mouth, making Rafa stop imagining all together. He just _felt_ , enjoying the way Roger’s tongue stroked the roof of his mouth, the way his fingertips tugged on Rafa’s hair, the way that Rafa felt weight on top of him, the sensation of sinking. 

His hands had started to travel the length of Roger’s back when he heard a paper bag crinkle, causing Roger to pull away and laugh. 

Roger picked up the bag of fries with a sheepish grin, throwing it off the bed. It took Rafa a moment to realize that Roger had been straddling his lap when the bag had got caught between their thighs—that the bag had only got caught because _he was making out with Roger._ On the bed. In real life. With David Attenborough talking about whales as Roger leaned over him, bracing his arms on either side of Rafa’s head. 

“Um,” Roger started, but stopped to continue watching him. He did a lot of that, Rafa realized—seeming to wait on how Rafa was reacting before saying or doing anything. 

Was Rafa like some startled deer in the forest? But then, Rafa could hardly believe that this was happening; feeling the weight of Roger on his lap, that he allowed Rafa’s hands to slip up his jean-clad thighs.

“So, uh—that’s why I came to Rome.” A strand of dark hair unfurled from Roger’s ear, distracting Rafa from his intense look. So serious, so earnest. For _him_ , Rafa realized. 

If that were true—and really, even Rafa’s worst self-doubt had trouble denying it—then what _else_ was true? Was the look that Roger gave him beforehand—perusing his face, leaning close—was _that_ also true desire? And if it were, did that mean all the other times—at Laver Cup, at the Academy, at errant moments of meeting and greeting in the locker room, at restaurants, on the practice court—all those time had been true, too? That Rafa had not imagined _anything_ —that for years and years that Rafa had been hoping, Roger had been giving him every reason to hope? 

Rafa reached up to tuck that strand of hair behind Roger’s ear, and when he did, he pulled Roger down for another kiss. His brain was formulating arguments on how Roger was an idiot to do Rome for that reason—but then, he wouldn’t be kissing Roger if he wasn’t an idiot. And Rafa wanted to laugh at that, but Roger bit his lip and started to kiss his jawline, and all Rafa could do was close his eyes and hum. 

How sweet, how soft. Roger was mouthing his neck, and Rafa’s hands did whatever they wanted—they moved up Roger’s thighs to his back, with Rafa’s fingertips skimming underneath Roger’s sweatshirt. His hands spread out and upward on soft skin, and soon he was pulling Roger close, chest to chest—a part of Rafa wanted to be so tight, so suffocated, and Roger was letting him. Enthusiastically; fiercely. When they kissed again, Rafa felt hands in his hair and their bodies roll to the side, their legs tangling and fitting together. 

Rafa’s gray sweats were thin, and he could feel the texture of Roger’s blue jeans, and no doubt Roger could feel how heavy and hard he was. Rafa didn’t want to stop the slow pace, and yet there was something desperate building. Roger was grinding harder, his hands reaching around for Rafa’s ass, and a heavy sigh escaped him that made Rafa open his eyes. 

Roger looked so heavy-lidded, so blissed out, but he was watching him—watching Rafa, still. Was he waiting? Waiting for _what_? And it occurred to Rafa that Roger was still being so patient, despite the heavy breathing, their chests heaving, their skin hot and flushed. 

_That_ had to stop. Rafa found one of Roger’s hands and put it down his gray sweatpants, guiding Roger’s fingers around his leaking cock. 

“Jesus,” Roger hissed, but he went after him greedily—kissing, stroking, crowding him. Rafa tried to snake one of his hands to Roger’s bulge, and when he unbuttoned Roger’s jeans and cupped him, Roger let out a groan. “Hands—hands, now. Hands, hands—”

Roger buried his face in Rafa’s neck, and when Rafa got a hold of him, it only took a few strokes for Roger to be moaning and coming. The notes hit something within Rafa, so hot, so urgent, that Rafa jerked his hips and was coming, too—he watched as he spilled over in Roger’s hand, feeling his mouth open, breathing hard. 

It was all sticky and warm, and air and time felt slow again. Rafa could hear the TV, but no real words. Then Roger lifted his head and came into focus, and he was grinning down at him—satisfied? Happy? Either Rafa’s brain was broken or he was still in a haze, but Rafa smiled back him, enjoying how close they were. 

Because… they had just had _sex_. On his bed. In Rome. With Roger’s family somewhere, probably wondering—

“Hey.” Roger touched his cheek. “Don’t look so guilty. I’ve been wanting this for a _long_ time. Well—” Roger smiled softly. “Mostly been wanting to kiss you for the longest time, but you were hard to pin down.”

Roger was leaning over him now, pointedly sinking his weight into him, so Rafa would have to say he finally succeeded. But Rafa had a hard time switching his brain off, despite his best efforts to be happy for himself, to just love and be loved. 

There was so much Rafa wanted to memorize from this moment—the playful light in Roger’s eyes, the way his hair was mussed but stupidly artful, the shadow on his chin and jawline that made him look scruffy but wholly attractive. If it were a picture, Rafa would shove it in his mouth and swallow it; it was too much to take in at once. 

“So…” Rafa started, not sure if he wanted to ask. “No Paris.” No seeing him soon, probably—maybe never again? Maybe that was it. And why not? Rafa was lucky to have this, when he thought he would never have anything at all. When Rafa thought about it, this was dangerous enough. He didn’t want to break up Roger’s family, his marriage; _hurt_ anybody—

“Hmm?” Roger looked for the Diet Coke and grabbed it from the nightstand. “Oh, I’ll be in Paris. Just not playing. I have an engagement.” He took a sip. “Mirka wants to go shopping, anyway. I told her we’d probably take the kids somewhere, if you had time.” 

Rafa swallowed as he watched him, not sure of what to say. He wanted Roger to just keep talking, keep saying things that sounded like they’d be together, even if only for an afternoon. 

“And then without the kids, I mean—” Roger looked at him shyly, perhaps for the first and only time in his entire life. “City of love, and all that.” 

Rafa stilled; his chest felt tight. He couldn’t breathe. But he grabbed the soda away from Roger’s hands and kissed him; dragged him down and kissed him until he couldn’t hear or see things anymore. 

As far as Rafa was concerned, Rome was now the city of love. It was now the most romantic city in the whole world.

***

A few years ago, Rafa had taken Mary on his yacht for a weekend trip into the bay. It had been the summer, and the media had caught them swimming in turquoise waters; sun-bathing on the deck; fishing in the sea. _Still Hot and Heavy_ , so many gossip columnists had said—but really they had chatted over beers and grilled fish as the sun went down, getting cozy with their secrets.

Mary had wrapped herself in a blanket as they looked out the cabin windows, moving on to a bottle of wine. It had turned dusk, but neither of them had bothered to turn on the lights; they were both too miserable and sour. Instead they had moved around by the glow of navigation equipment and a lamp from outside—moved when they had to, anyway. 

They had been at an impasse with their obsessions. For Mary, it had been Isobel wavering on her divorce—it had gone on too long, and as Mary whined, _”She still loves him.”_ For Rafa, it had been the birth of Leo and Lenny—his hopes and dreams had felt constricted; suffocated. And rightly so. Roger had become different with fatherhood, and the kids had deserved that—someone wonderful and present. 

There had been no one to blame, but Rafa had felt awful, anyway. 

_”Why are we like this?”_ Mary had poured herself another glass, spilling some of the contents on a table. _”It’s ridiculous.”_

Wasn’t it? They both knew that their ships had long left the harbor, leaving them stranded and at their own peril. They were even surviving on metaphorical island scraps, perhaps. And logically, Rafa could agree— _ridiculous_. It was ridiculous to still be infatuated after all this time; perhaps detrimental in the long run. 

And yet… nothing turned them on more. For Rafa, there was a response to Roger that couldn’t be repeated anywhere else. Rafa had kissed and made out with so many other men, and those times had been great. But, _Roger_ —even without the sex—rang all the bells, pushed all the buttons, set off all the alarms. It was bizarre. Rafa had once caught a glimpse of Roger in briefs in the locker room and it had invaded his head for months. Just a _glimpse_. No matter how old they got, or the changes their bodies went through, it didn’t seem to matter.

Was that a gift? A _curse_? Some people could never get off, but Rafa could get off all the time. Quickly, even. Just by imagining those damn white briefs. 

_”What do we do, Rafa?”_ Mary's plea had sounded so simple. There were probably simple solutions. _”I could just ignore her, but… I mean, who does that hurt? I’m miserable, and Isobel would have no idea.”_

Could Rafa ignore Roger? Was that even possible? The truth was, Roger had never allowed himself to be forgotten. Even during long stretches of the season, Roger would eventually call or text:

> How blue IS the water there, Raf? Maybe I should come see it for myself.

They had both lied down, stretching over the benches in the cabin, and Mary had gotten to the part of drunkenness where she would start singing. She wasn’t a bad singer, exactly, but she was incredibly repetitive and loud. 

“The future’s not ours to see—que será, será…” _What will be, will be._

Rafa had groaned and covered his eyes; possibly also his ears. But that was it, wasn’t it? Rafa couldn’t predict anything. He had no crystal ball. He hated that he couldn’t control most things—couldn’t control his life as much as his tennis. If it were as easy to order, purchase, or forget love, he would’ve already done it. Maybe one day Rafa would meet a man and fall madly for them—enough to come out to his extended family, his fans, the world. But, back then—and perhaps forever—all Rafa could do was just simply love Roger. Be meticulous with everything else, but as long as Roger had no idea, allow that love to simply exist. Allow it to take up room and reside in his chest, secret and forbidden. 

_”Oh, lord,”_ Mary had said with a sigh. _Wouldn’t it just be nice? Wouldn’t it just be nice to be loved back, for once?_ She had laughed. _Would I even know what to_ do _with myself if she did?_

Rafa had closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine—Roger loving him, kissing him, holding him. Rafa had let it come over him like a wave, basking in its imaginary existence, warm and pure. The questions of Mirka, the kids—he had no worries about them. When it was just them in his mind’s eye—Roger gazing at him with love, and Rafa allowed to gaze back—it had felt like nothing else. It had felt like perfection. 

_”I would just love him,”_ Rafa had said to himself. _”I would just love him, and love him, and love him—no matter what.”_

***

It was early, with pale light coming through the windows of their London house in hushed, soft rays. Rafa’s alarm had gone off for practice, but he had already been awake for some time. No matter how many finals he played in, there was an excitement that coursed through him, making it hard to sleep. Probably for the best that Rafa had been by himself, as he had tossed and turned for most of the night; imagining. Hoping.

Life would be different after this. Rafa was going to play against his lover, and he intended to thoroughly thrash him. A corner of his mouth perked up at the thought—it would be delightful. Roger would probably be very pissy afterwards, but as far as Rafa was concerned, he would have to get used to it. The record was going to be 0-2, and he was going to have his number 18. 

“Isn’t this supposed to be a date?” Roger had joked with him a few nights ago, his legs splayed on the bed to invite Rafa in. 

“Yes, and you pay,” Rafa had answered, grinning cheekily as Roger pinched him. But the touches had been much softer after that—then fervent, heated, frantic. 

Rafa dressed quickly, padding softly into the hallway to make his way quietly downstairs. The children got up early, too, but Rafa still had them beat by an hour. The last thing he wanted to do was to make them crabby before the final—watching tennis was probably boring enough without being tired. It was important for them to support their father, sure, but Rafa didn’t know why Mirka made the children do it, to be honest. 

“Good morning,” Mirka said from the kitchen, surprising him. She was holding a red mug, probably filled with coffee, with a bathrobe wrapped around herself. Rafa had intended to grab a bottle of water and a banana, but instead he sat down at the bar across from her and smiled in response. She had already set out the water and banana for him, and Rafa could hardly refuse. 

Although truthfully, Rafa still had no idea what they were doing. It had been a strange few months, but Rafa couldn’t say that he minded the strangeness. He saw Roger more often, more openly, more affectionately. Paris had felt like a dream, with Roger blowing him most mornings, then fucking him later most nights. 

And the woman across from Rafa knew it; probably knew all of it. Last night Roger had been with her, and Roger was probably still snoozing on that bed, sleeping blissfully. Rafa could even picture the man on his stomach, hair messy and boxers snagged low, and Rafa wished he could go up there and kiss him. Roger would probably snore through it and not even notice. 

“Big day,” Mirka said, blowing on her mug. “I’d wish you luck, but… _well_.”

Rafa understood. She liked him, but she was loyal to her husband.

_Husband._ Rafa chewed on that—didn’t the idea bother him? Wasn’t he jealous in the slightest? He didn’t know. Perhaps he was easily swayed by the newness of it; the fact that Roger was not shy with his affections. When they had been with the kids, Roger had shown no hesitation in holding his hand, or pulling Rafa aside to kiss him in discreet corners. It had only mattered that the paparazzi might be around; and that was for both their sakes and for the kids. 

But Rafa was no secret to those who mattered. That gave him a tiny thrill. The fact that Roger’s team was shacking up with Rafa’s team in another house, while Rafa stayed with the Federers, was also no secret—and the teams had also not been surprised. In fact, Uncle Toni had invited himself over several times for dinner, being the same grumpy uncle to the kids. It had strangely warmed Rafa’s heart. 

_”You don’t let him win because you love him, all right?”_ Uncle Toni had said before leaving practice yesterday, with Roger a few feet behind the net. 

“What did he say?” Roger had asked, watching Uncle Toni leave. They had always been on decent terms—but then, that was before Uncle Toni had caught them making out in a stairwell. 

“He say with a weak serve like that, I kick your ass,” Rafa had answered. Roger had scowled at him—but he did not need to know that Rafa loved him. Not yet. 

“I don’t know how today will go,” Mirka admitted softly. But the way she had said it, Rafa had heard, _I don’t know about Roger._ It had been sad, with a sense of finality. 

There would always be things that Rafa didn’t know. He suspected retirement would likely be one of them. Perhaps it would be Roger’s last Wimbledon, but that didn’t mean Rafa would give him a break. Or maybe there was something else there—Rafa hoped not. 

Mirka leaned on the bar, giving his arm a squeeze. “This is probably weird for you. It’s weird for me, too. But at the same time—I think it’s also okay?”

Rafa nodded. 

“He’s been in love with you for ages.” Mirka gave him a sideways glance. “You too, I think.”

“With myself?” Rafa said, although he knew what Mirka meant. But he also didn’t want to tell her first. 

“I’ve had a long time to get used to it, to think about it. Heck—I think I’ve known about it since that first Wimbledon, actually.” 

Rafa knew those photos. Years ago, they had embarrassed him at the Academy opening—one of many where Rafa seemed to stare too long, too hard at Roger. Perhaps not as bad as the following year at Wimbledon, but in the end, what difference did it make?

Except that now, Rafa wanted to look at those photos again. What did Mirka see then that Rafa didn’t? He thought that the looks from Roger had been recent, only a few years. But there was a reality sinking in, undeniable, that they had been dancing around this issue for a long, long time. It made Rafa grip the counter tightly; he could still hardly believe it. 

“One day, I just saw Roger looking at you—and I recognized that look. Of being head over heels, of being totally engrossed.” Mirka gave a small, sad smile. “It was the same look he gave me, back during the Sydney Olympics. When we were so young, so promising—before the kids, before the tours, before the career.” 

Rafa didn’t want to hear this part. The idea of luring Roger away had always been part nightmare, part inner devil. He remembered his parents’ divorce proceedings and how bitter it had been when they almost split up—the hurt, the sadness. A home that had been filled with love suddenly so void, so brittle. 

“But then—it was after the boys were born, I think, when I was feeling pretty down about myself. Old; worn; questioning. And Roger came to me, and…” Mirka swallowed, her hands tightening about her cup, but her vulnerability still apparent for all to see. “I realized he was looking at me. _Still_. Still that way—the same way he looks at you.” 

Rafa felt the relief flood him. He didn’t know about which part. It occurred to him, finally, that this was why he didn’t object to their strange arrangement. Why he didn’t feel awful or resentful. It was because he didn’t feel _lesser_ —and when he saw Roger kiss Mirka, he didn’t feel that Mirka was on the short end, either. 

_”It’s because love doesn’t make exact sense,”_ Mary said in their last phone call; her voice from across an ocean. _”If it works for you, then who cares? I just want you to be happy.”_

Rafa knew that feeling; he had wished it for Mary, so many times. He missed her in London, but Isobel had taken Mary to America—far from the media blitz of a single, “heartbroken” Rafael Nadal, hanging with the Federers for solace. 

If only they knew. 

“It’s not perfect—but I trust Roger. He’s never given me a moment to doubt him, even when I knew he cared about you. And when I see how he loves our children, our families, his friends—” Mirka sighed, but it was with a contented smile into her coffee mug, the kind that saw good things and many blessings. “I realized that I love him because he loves so much.”

Rafa didn’t know what to think of that. He hadn’t wanted this conversation with Mirka before the final, and yet it had also made him feel lighter, more receptive to whatever happened. Life _would_ be different after today—and not because of whoever won, or the plans Rafa had for staying in Dubai, or for Roger to stay at the Academy—it was because Rafa knew with a different type of certainty that things would be okay. That he would go to Roger later that night, and hopefully for many nights afterwards, with the knowledge that they both cared deeply, and for a long time. Perhaps never-ending. 

“You have a nice smile, Rafa,” Mirka said, pulling him out of his reverie. She was grinning back at him, as though she knew what he was thinking. “I’m glad Roger can put it there.”

***

> Tell Uncle Toni that I won’t let you kick my ass today, even though I absolutely adore you.

Rafa felt the grin on his face before he saw it in the locker room mirror—the corners of his eyes crinkling, his teeth a brilliant white. He kept grinning as he threw off his blue practice t-shirt, stuffing it into his duffel bag and grabbing a white towel. 

It felt nice. If anything, smiling did not feel so strange or rare, anymore.


End file.
